


Mirror

by bjfic_archivist



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Drama, Season/Series 02, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-12
Updated: 2007-07-26
Packaged: 2018-12-26 22:37:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 42
Words: 188,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12068364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjfic_archivist/pseuds/bjfic_archivist
Summary: In this crazy, post-bashing world of medications, doctor visits, and strange acronyms like “PTSD,” does Brian really have time to be alarmed by a few bizarre incidents in his own life?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

[](http://photobucket.com)

_What a motherfuckin' nightmare his life was right now … all of it, every last miserable piece of it._

"No, don't—don't!" Justin screamed into the darkness.   


Jolted out of an uneasy sleep, Brian jerked instinctively away from the boy's arm when it slammed down on his chest, blinking to clear his eyes as he tried to understand what was happening. _Nightmare_ , he thought as his foggy brain began to work, pushing himself up on one arm to watch Justin roll to one side away from him. _Another fuckin' nightmare._ He reached out a hand, but stopped when he remembered. No, don't touch him. Let him come out of it, be a quiet presence in the room. Shit, was he channeling the damn doctor now? "It's okay," he whispered, his hand still out there touching nothing. "Justin? You're okay."  
  
Breathing rapidly, Justin had folded himself into a fetal position and was crying with an intensity that never ceased to tug at his heart.  
  
Brian rubbed his scratchy eyes, wondering if this day, which he'd hoped had finally ended, could get any worse. He glanced at the clock to his left. 1:07. Shit, they'd been asleep for only two hours? It'd taken him twice as long to get Justin calmed down after he'd returned from the funeral. Fuck, after a little over three weeks of dealing with him, he believed he'd finally established a routine and things might return to normal. "Normal," that is, under far different circumstances. Nowadays, normal meant doctor and physical therapy appointments; medications that had to be taken on schedule; repeated trips to the pharmacy; monitoring Justin's eating and sleeping habits; and, more than anything else, calming Justin's fears about the epilepsy, the PTSD, the nightmares, the funeral today—or yesterday, really—not to mention, the kid's whole fucking _life_.   
  
When he heard Justin's sobs easing up, he thought maybe enough time had passed. Taking a chance, he touched his bare shoulder, fingers sliding over smooth skin. "Sunshine? It's okay. You had another nightmare."  
  
Justin flinched at the contact, but then took a few deep breaths as if to calm himself.  
  
"How about I get you some water and a sleeping pill?"  
  
For a moment, the only sound in the loft was Justin's breathing. "Okay." He sniffed, wiping at his face as he turned in Brian's direction, his pale features ghostly in the half-light.  
  
Although reading people was not his strong suit, he knew Justin's signals like he'd been born with them already implanted in his brain. Scooting a little closer, Brian brushed back the hair that'd fallen onto Justin's sweaty forehead, laying down when the boy moved into his arms. He held him close, running a hand up and down his back, trying, as he always did, to figure out how he'd ended up as the caretaker of an eighteen-year-old brain injury patient. The answer, of course, was brutally straightforward, one Justin wanted to deny, one he'd never be able to ignore. "Was it Hobbs again?" he asked after a moment of silent comfort. He kissed the top of Justin's head, the fine hairs there tickling his nose.   
  
"No-yes, I guess … he was in it, but it was …" Justin pressed his face into Brian's chest, emerging an instant later. "It was about your mom."  
  
She been dead for, what? Less than a week now, and already she'd caused a shit-load of trouble. _Fuck_ , he thought, _why doesn't that surprise me_? He drew a ragged breath. "Justin, she had a heart attack," he said as gently as he knew how. "She didn't die violently, she—"  
  
"She still died!" Justin's voice rose. "Not even four months since the bashing!"  
  
They'd been over all of this earlier, when he got back to the loft, after the funeral, after the interment, after the hours of stale sandwiches, bitter coffee, and phony condolences. Justin was spooked, but that's what happened when someone wielding a baseball bat took away your illusion of adolescent invincibility. Suddenly, Justin's world had gone from safe to unsafe, from healthy to sick, from happy to sad. Fuck, and it couldn't be fixed. No matter how much he wished he could, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't take away the pain nor kill the fear that gnawed at Justin 24/7. "People die all the time, you know that," he tried, feeling his way forward, so out of his element it wasn't even funny. He was not the guy for this job. Why had Jennifer asked him to do it? Nothing qualified him. Not one fucking thing.   
  
Justin buried his face again, easily reduced to his ten-year-old self these days. "I just don't want anything to happen to … you," he said, his voice muffled.  
  
"I'm fine, you're fine, everyone's … fuck, I sound like a book."  
  
Justin looked up and Brian sensed a shift in the room's emotional temperature. "God, Brian, I'm sorry. I shouldn't be … it was you who …"  
  
"We've been over that." He spoke in the first normal voice he'd used since this began, not wanting, in any way, shape, or form, to talk about his mother, her death, his fucking family, the goddamn shit he'd gone through the past five days. He used a thumb to rub away the wetness under one of Justin's eyes. "Look, I'm going to get your medication, okay? It's late and you need to be sleeping—we both do."  
  
Justin's grip on him tightened and for a minute it seemed like they were headed for another full-fledged freak out like the one they'd had earlier. Then he relaxed. "Okay," he said in a voice so soft it immediately dissolved into the air. Shit, he hated this. Hated Chris Hobbs. Hated what he'd done. And fucking hated what it had done to him too, which was something he tried not to think about or ever admit. How could he? In this new world, his needs didn't exist. They couldn't.  
  
Brian got up to get the pill.

***

A half hour later, after the medication had taken effect, after soothing words he didn't believe, after holding Justin snugly in his arms, he drifted off to sleep. Brian waited until he felt Justin's muscles relax before he slid from the bed, pulling on sweatpants, and going into the living room. He needed some JB. And a cigarette.   
  
He sat on the couch, drinking straight from the bottle 'til he felt the burn in his throat. When the familiar buzz began, he reviewed the day. This time, after this particular funeral, he'd been "good" and hadn't gotten drunk the way he did after Jack died. "Such a good boy," one of Mom's half-deaf, old-biddy friends said as he sat on a chair in the corner and listened stone-faced as people extolled his mother's supposed virtues, murmuring something that might've been "thanks," but surely wasn't. Although, fuck, it had nothing to do with good manners or feelings for a dead parent who had never loved him and, given the chance, would've slapped him a lot quicker than kissed him. And God knows there was plenty of booze in the house, so that hadn't been the reason either. No, it'd been _Justin_. Sure, he wasn't there, but he was back at the loft and he'd been having a hard time ever since he'd gotten the call from an hysterical Claire four, no five days ago. Brian knew in a dead sober kind of way he couldn't return that night propped up on Mikey's shoulders, staggering and incoherent, no use to himself, no use to anyone. Justin was _his_ responsibility   
  
He swallowed another shot, the liquor beginning to work its way into his bloodstream so that his tense muscles relaxed, although the Beam was doing nothing for the headache he'd been ignoring for the last ten hours.   
  
Claire, though … when someone died, did she have _any_ emotion other than hysteria? Apparently not. She'd slobbered all over him, conveniently forgetting how much she hated her little brother and how she'd even taught her freaky spawns of Satan to hate him. How had one man gotten so lucky, to be stuck with such a bitch of a sister? She'd started bitching at him over the phone, even before calling 911 to confirm what she already knew: Mom lay dead on the living room floor, her skirt hitched up, one hand outstretched, her face full of surprise. Why should she be surprised, though? Didn't she have first-class admission to heaven just waiting to be validated when she arrived at the pearly gates? But that'd only been the beginning of Claire's over-the-top behavior. As the days wore on, she'd bitched at him on a number of choice occasions: when they picked out the mortuary, composed the notice for the paper, decided on a casket, and the headstone, even when they'd chosen the clothes Mom would wear. Every last fucking detail seemed to elicit whining and weeping and wailing from her like she and Mom had been the closest of friends. Like she cared, which was the biggest lie of all. Claire only cared about one person and it sure as hell wasn't Mom.  
  
Lighting a cigarette, he got up and went to the window looking out at the street below. He worked his head left and right, trying to unkink tight neck muscles, but not having much success. _I need aspirin,_ he thought, but didn't move, staring at the quieted street as if an answer might come roaring through the intersection. Answer to what, though? His current dilemma? How to "put back together again" a teenager who'd been tumbled off the wall because he was gay? A boy who trusted almost no one except _him_? There had to be an absurd irony in that, some crazy twist in the universe that'd produced such a thing. If he believed God existed, he'd think "the Almighty," as his mother liked to call the supposed ruler of the universe, had done it to him as some kind of sick joke. Still, Justin was living here because he had to, there wasn't any other choice. Caring for him … that scared the spit right out of him because he knew nothing about people, their feelings, what made them tick. _Fucking_ , he knew about. Creating an ad campaign that would sell a product—that he could do. Assembling a fabulous wardrobe, designing a breath-taking living space, putting together the best exercise program—those things he knew. Repairing teenagers? No.  
  
Brian went back to the couch, crushed out the cigarette, and lay down. God, he was so fucking tired. Lately, that's all he seemed to be—exhausted, on edge, and with a constant headache. Of course, being jarred out of his sleep several nights a week didn't help. And there'd been precious little fucking, either, which was something he used as a stress reliever. His tricking at Babylon or the casual pick-up at Woody's had slowed down considerably, at least for a while. Working so hard, trying to prove to Marty Ryder that his brilliance made him partnership material, didn't help either. He closed his eyes, rubbing his arms as the tiredness weighed him down. Fuck, what was he going to do about the meeting with Poolside next week? Already, his research had revealed that the CEO, Clayton Pool, would most likely march into the office just a few days before his board of directors meeting, looking for big answers. Which meant just one thing. The bastard hoped that he, Brian Kinney, ad exec extraordinaire, had those answers along with an instant cure-all for his slumping revenue woes.   
  
Skirting the edges between consciousness and unconsciousness, Brian sighed. _That's exactly what I always have_ , he thought as the first waves of drowsiness lapped at him, skimming over his arms and legs, tantalizing, and soothing, _a cure-all. That's me, the fuckin' hero, the one who rips off his suit in a telephone booth, and then leaps into the air and begins to soar toward—_

***

_Right then, I'm_ **_not_ ** _flying like I should be, bounding up into the air and soaring off to the rescue. SuperBrian with the cure-all. Instead, I'm falling, feet-first, my arms at my sides, very much not a superhero. All around, there's whiteness, but it isn't fluffy clouds and this isn't heaven. It's just … white, a snowstorm in Antarctica without the snow. I'm not screaming although my mouth is open because I feel the air hitting my teeth._ _  
  
_I'm striding down a dark corridor that's so long you can't see the other end. It's dimly lit and I hear my own footsteps, wondering what the fuck is going on. I'm annoyed, though—not frightened. Up ahead, out of nowhere, a little kid appears, maybe eight? Nine? Ten? I walk faster, trying to catch up to him and see who he is. But, when I walk faster,_ **he** _walks faster. We do this for a while, which annoys me even more. Then we start running. I can't catch him, which makes no sense because I'm six-two and he's maybe four feet, if that._  
  
_The kid flings open a door. Sudden brightness floods into the darkened hallway and I squint, shielding my eyes as the sunshine pours in. There's a bridge outside, one of those narrow, steel commuter types that sometimes cross over freeways. As I step onto it, my feet banging against the metal underneath, I notice rushing water beneath me, whitecaps foaming up as the river runs between a couple of boulders. The kid starts across ahead of me, but somehow, I catch up to him in the middle of the bridge. Grabbing his arm, I whirl him around._  
  
_On a sharp inhale, I jump back. His face is a fuckin' mirror. No, not the flat surface of a mirror. It's as if someone made him a mirror mask that fits precisely over his face from forehead to chin, a mask I look into and see my own reflection, a mask that terrifies me. "Fuck! Get away from me!" I shout as I jump back. My eyes are still fixed on his face—on_ **my** _face, which is what I see in the reflection—and, as I stare, fascinated and horrified and unable to wrench my eyes away, his real face slowly appears._  
  
_It's me. Age eight. Wearing the green knit vest my mother made, the one I always hated because it was so itchy. Something's in my hand, something I'm holding out. A rosary, a mossy green rosary with a red swirl in each glass bead. The crucifix is silver and there's a small silver rose that joins the crucifix part to the beads. As I stare, backing up in panic, he offers it to me again. "Please, it's yours. Don't you know? Take it!" he says, the urgency in his voice unmistakable. "It's yours!" He comes closer, waving the rosary. "Take it!" he cries, as if his life depends on it. "You've got to take it!"__

***

With a strangled cry, Brian awoke, arms flailing like he was once more falling through the white nothingness of his dream, almost plummeting off the couch in his haste to sit up. Shit! He rubbed his face with both hands until his cheeks burned and his palms were rough from the stubble. That fucked up dream! Again! It wasn't funny anymore, if it ever had been. Goddamn, stupid motherfuckin' dream!  
  
Throwing himself off the couch, he strode to the kitchen and pulled a bottle of water from the fridge, twisting off the top and taking a good long drink while he tried to get his heart rate back to normal. There had to be something pathological about a nightmare that'd persisted so long. Besides, you'd think after dreaming something like that for so many fucking years, it'd no longer have the same impact, it'd no longer scare the shit out of him the way it did. And _why_? That was the sixty-four million dollar question. Because he tried to give a rosary to himself? An obvious religious reference like a rosary was making him jerk awake and sweat and freak out like he'd just seen a two-headed monster? Fuck, it made no sense, none whatsoever! No wonder he'd never told a soul about the dreams.  
  
He went back to the couch, slammed himself down, and grabbed his cigarettes, lighting one, drawing the acrid smoke deep into his lungs. The problem was that they'd started occurring more frequently. When they first began, he had them, what? A couple times a year at the most. Now, though, it was more like a couple time a _week_. Ever since the bashing, since the nightmares he'd had in its wake, since the fuckin' PTSD that nurse at the hospital kept telling him he had. He didn't have anything even remotely resembling that even if he'd had some so-called "episodes," which were, he knew for a fact, nothing more than a deplorable lack of self control. Justin had noticed something, though. He told him a few days ago he'd been muttering something in his sleep, something that sounded like, "Get away from me!"   
  
God, it was so fucked up.  
  
He chugged more water, the icy liquid running down his chin and neck, murmuring under his breath until he was certain he must be crazy. Rubbing his forehead, he realized he'd never gotten the aspirin he needed. _Well, shit. I take such good care of Justin where the meds are concerned, but me? That's another thing entirely._ He tried to smile at the irony, but smiles weren't coming this late at night. Fuck, he had to get some sleep. He'd missed work today and he needed to be there tomorrow, on his game, ready to kick anyone who tried to take his coveted top dog position. That required strength, stamina, and single-mindedness—three things that didn't operate well on only a few hours sleep.  
  
Plus, he had to help Claire clean out the house on Saturday. What a motherfuckin' nightmare his life was right now … all of it, every last miserable piece of it. Brian flinched as a fresh stab of pain shot through his right eye. Son of a bitch!   
  
_Aspirin. Would you get the fuckin' aspirin?_  
  
But he didn't move, sitting there, shoulders hunched as he thought about the boy in the dream.   
  
Why would he think of himself that way? Handing over a rosary he'd never seen, one that likely had never existed. Oh, Mom had rosaries and plenty of them. When you went to fuckin' church seven days a week, you needed them to coordinate with your wardrobe. The one in the dream, though, looked antique, ageless, the kind of heirloom one handed down from generation to generation. And even if it _did_ exist, what the fuck did it mean that he gave it to himself? Buried deep within his psyche, maybe he really want to be a priest and was trying to tell himself that in the dream? Yeah, right, that was it. _Sure._ Was there a deep, dark family secret associated with the rosary, like an insane Irish cousin they'd kept locked up in the attic? Much more likely. Or maybe the deep, dark secret had to do with _him_ in some way? He was the crazy one and he just didn't know it?   
  
Shit.   
  
It didn't make sense  
  
He rubbed his right eye.  
  
It just didn't make any sense at all.


	2. Chapter 2

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_Meanwhile, she was giving him the Taylor family version of the death stare, but when WASPs did it, they kept a polite face and it lost a lot of its zing._

  
"So, where is he?" Jennifer asked him around noon the next day as they off-loaded enough groceries from her car to feed a small army.  
  
"Working." Taking another plastic bag that must have a fuckin' _watermelon_ in it, Brian shifted the weight in his arms, watching as she closed and locked her car. Jennifer was wearing a well-cut black pants suit with a silky pink blouse underneath, and, with her gold earrings and perky hair-do, looked, as always, impeccable. "Deb needed some help with the morning shift," he said as he followed her into the building, "and he wanted to do it." As he walked, the plastic handles of the grocery bags cut into his hands. Fuck, why did she feel this need to feed them? It wasn't like they didn't know how to order take-out.  
  
Since his arms were occupied, Jennifer rolled open the elevator door and stepped aside so Brian could go first. "Was that wise? I don't think he's well enough yet to be doing something like that, so early in the morning. There's so many people in the diner and—"  
  
"He didn't go in until 8:00. By then, most of the club crowd is gone, and the office workers are finishing up and soon on their way. After that, it's not crowded again until around 11:00." Grateful that he'd switched to heavier weights at the gym, Brian moved another bag, trying to even out the strain on his arms. "Besides, it isn't the first time he's worked at the diner since the … since he came here to live. And, it's his decision."  
  
Like the girl in _The Exorcist_ , Jennifer's head swiveled in his direction, her eyes like sudden darkness, and he remembered—though it should be something he never forgot—that the woman hated his guts. "And what exactly is your role in his care, Brian? I mean, why is he living here if—"  
  
"He's living here because you fucking asked me if he could." He gave her back glare for glare, not the least bit interested in subtleties when Justin wasn't around. About three-and-one-half weeks since Justin moved in, it just might be time for the two of them to get a few things straight. "I'm not his goddamn father, his brother, or his kindly uncle. I'm the guy who fucks him, and you knew that going in." The elevator came to a halt and, after she'd rolled open the door, he stepped into the hallway and on into his already-opened door. He set the groceries onto the counter then went around it, pulling out stuff when he reached the other side. Romaine, carrots, tomatoes, apples, bananas—riotous color splashed against his stark stainless steel-and-white decor. Meanwhile, she was giving him the Taylor family version of the death stare, but when WASPs did it, they kept a polite face and it lost a lot of its zing. "Spit it out," he growled, just itching for a fight.   
  
"I don't see the point of his being here if you're not going to—"  
  
"The point is you wanted him to be _touched_. Do you remember that? He wouldn't let you near him. He wouldn't let anyone near him. Except me." He slammed a quart of milk onto the counter, his hand slipping down the slick container so that he almost lost his grip. "Mission accomplished, Jennifer."  
  
With a metallic clank, she thumped down a can of soup. "Except that he's working more than he should be! Don't give me that-that bullshit that you're not his father because I'm not buying it. You have influence over him, and you know it." Another can hit the counter. "God, I've never understood why he so instantly fell for you. It makes me crazy! Right from the start, almost from the very first moment he met you, he's been in love with you, so crazy in love he not only puts up with your-your—"  
  
"—bullshit," he said, knowing she probably had a rule about using the word more than once a minute.   
  
"Exactly!" She whacked the counter with another can, and, as weird as it seemed, he _felt_ the sound over his right eye. "He loves you, Brian, and you know that. In fact, I know you care for him too, even if you do want to maintain that asinine façade of being a big, bad macho SOB who doesn't love anyone." She tossed her head, blonde hair flying. "You _care_ for him and that's why I'm surprised that you would blithely let him do whatever he wants."  
  
He stuffed one of the plastic bags in the trash. God, he needed a cigarette, so bad. "We're talking about Justin Taylor aren't we? Your son? The guy who pretty much has _always_ done what he wants to do?"  
  
"Don't give me that. He's eighteen, you're—"  
  
"—old enough to know better?" He grabbed the milk, and some of the vegetables and fruit, turning to stick them in the fridge. When he emerged, he found her standing next to him, her arms filled with other items that needed refrigeration including the latest in a series of casseroles meant to sustain them. For a moment, they stared and he saw, despite himself, how tightly the skin seemed to be stretched around her eyes, how rigidly she held her mouth. _Fuck me_ , he thought, because he knew what it meant. He'd seen it on Justin, that same expression, the same taut mouth, the same pain in the same blue eyes. "Okay, listen," he said, his own anger dissipating because he fucking knew things were hard for her right now. He took the items from her and stuck them into the refrigerator. The scent of garlic and oregano that drifted up to him from the casserole made his stomach rumble and he wondered if he'd have time to grab something at the diner before he headed back to the office. "I'm going to tell you this once, but don't repeat it."  
  
Jennifer went back to the other side of the counter, and unloaded more groceries. "I'm listening." She handed him things to put into the cabinets, her tone neutral.   
  
He'd driven halfway across town to meet her during his lunch hour and this was what he had to deal with? "I let him do it without arguing with him because I know he's scared shitless. He's a boy—a young man, and, in his mind, that's not an acceptable reaction to have. Trust me. It does no good to tell him he has every right to be scared. That's not how men think, talking all that bullshit about feelings. We have to _act_ and that's what he's doing by taking risks like going to the diner. You're a lot of things to him, Jennifer, good things, but you're his _mother_ and you're going to come from a protective place."  
  
"And you don't?"  
  
Fuck. "I don't in the same way you do."  
  
"So you just let him go do anything he wants and hope he doesn't get hurt?" For a second, the pain that flashed in her eyes was too hard to watch and he had to look away, his own memories like fierce demons ready to attack. "After everything that happened—"  
  
Brian glanced up, ready to say something, anything to make that expression go away, but then her face changed, softening in a way he couldn't fathom.   
  
She pulled the Cheerios and Cap'n Crunch from a bag, handing them to him. "No, you don't just let him do whatever he wants," she said in answer to her own question, sounding suddenly matter-of-fact. "You help him get over his fear. Like the fear of crowds. You walked with him how many times down Liberty Avenue?"  
  
Justin told her that? The kid was always engaged in a Brian-isn't-really-a-shit PR campaign that lacked any subtlety. He'd have to have a word with him. "Your point?" He shoved the cereal into the cupboard.  
  
"You're just as protective of him as I am, just in a different way."  
  
He kept his face expressionless. "My way is to let him take risks and that's what I was doing with that shit. If I didn't do that, he'd think I was questioning his manhood and that's the last fucking thing he needs right now. You know how scared he is about the PTSD attacks not to mention the idea that he might have a seizure while he's—"  
  
"That seizure could've just been an anomaly." She spoke all in a rush, like she couldn't wait to counter the words. "That's what Dr. Radnor said, and I want to believe him."  
  
She'd been there at the house when Justin had the seizure only a few days out of rehab. Jennifer knew such a possibility existed so she'd been prepared and had dealt with it admirably. That day she came to the loft to beg him to take Justin, she'd told him about it, in detail, because she wanted him to understand what he was getting into. Remembering that moment, Brian gripped the smooth edge of the counter, fingers tightening until they hurt. But it wasn't the seizure, per se, that was the problem. It was the _implication_ the seizure brought with it that had them so concerned. Having a seizure in the hospital, after major head trauma, was normal; no one had been alarmed about that. But having one after he left rehab meant that he might have developed epilepsy—a chronic disorder characterized by recurrent unprovoked seizures. Of course, the doctors now had him on anticonvulsants, but Justin was a nightmare to medicate because of his allergies/sensitivities to most drugs. The fuckin' anticonvulsant had changed three times in as many weeks.   
  
Brian crammed the last bag into the trash. Thinking about the anticonvulsants reminded him that he had to pick up the refill on the pain meds today or tomorrow, before Justin ran out. "I know it could be nothing, but it doesn't mean it isn't going to affect him adversely." He went back to the refrigerator. "Want some water? Coffee?"  
  
"Water is fine."  
  
He grabbed two bottles, but when he turned, he saw she'd found the medication schedule he'd typed up for Justin and cursed himself for leaving it on the counter. "Here."  
  
She looked at him with a mild expression like she didn't want him to know she'd seen it. "Thanks." Sitting on one of the white stools, she unscrewed the cap, staring at the bottle as if to commit it to memory. "I shouldn't be arguing with you, Brian." Her voice had changed too, soft and thoughtful and full of sudden sympathy. "I … need to apologize, especially in light of everything that's happened."  
  
That, he knew, was his cue. "Uh, thanks for the flowers you sent, Jennifer."  
  
Predictably, she looked guilty. "I would've come to the funeral, but I thought—"  
  
Brian gave his head an abrupt shake, wanting the topic ended. "You've got enough things to worry about right now. You didn't even know my mother."   
  
"Are you okay? I didn't ask and I—"  
  
"I'm fine." They needed a less explosive topic. He drew air, clicking through several ideas in his head before he found something suitable. "Any word about the health insurance?"   
  
Her shoulders slumped. "My lawyer says Craig's lawyer still wants to strike it from the final divorce settlement."  
  
"Can they do that?"  
  
"Justin's over eighteen. Technically, Craig doesn't have to provide anything for him." She took a delicate sip of her water, blinking rapidly. "And he seems to be in the mindset that the less he has to pay for, the better."  
  
Brian propped himself against the kitchen sink, keeping a tight grip on his anger. "He does realize what that'll do to Justin's medical treatment, doesn't he?"   
  
"He knows that, but … I don't know. I want to say he doesn't care, but …" She chewed on her lower lip until her lipstick was almost gone. " I don't think he fully understands what happened to Justin."  
  
"How hard is it to understand what getting hit in the head with a baseball bat does?"  
  
"He's in denial."  
  
"Which he could easily be since he never bothered to see his own son when he lay in the hospital for two fucking weeks and –"  
  
She held up a hand. "Let's not waste our breath." Jennifer took another sip of water. "I don't know what to tell you. He's angry, very, very angry. He blames Justin for our marriage falling apart, like if he'd only kept his gayness to himself we'd all still be living together as a happy little family of four in the suburbs." She propped an elbow on the counter and massaged the back of her neck.  
  
Brian examined her again. Yeah, this whole thing tore her up, didn't it? Not because she still loved the bastard but because … well, fuck, why? Because he was the father of her children? Because they'd had happy times together? Because she once _had_ loved him? So much for happily ever after. "How long were you two married?" Always at a loss where emotional women were concerned, he fell back on the tried-and-true: get them to talk about themselves.  
  
"Nineteen years." She directed a smile at him, faint and sad. "It would've been twenty if we made it until February, but by then the divorce ought to be final." With one manicured finger, she traced an invisible pattern on the stainless steel surface. "I wanted to get pregnant right away, but it didn't work out that way, which was good. We had time together, to get to know one another, so the marriage had a chance to grow."  
  
Grow? The word hardly seemed to fit their present circumstances, but Brian kept that thought to himself.  
  
"You should've seen Justin when he was born. So tiny, so perfect. He had those rosebud lips and blue-blue eyes and was so beautiful." She laughed, throwing back her head to beam a warm smile his way. "And so determined even when he was only a day old. I remember how he kept looking all around the hospital room, checking it out. I know they say newborns don't have much vision at first, but I swear he was looking at every single thing he could get his eyes on because he wanted to know what all the fuss was about."  
  
Brian smiled even though he didn't mean to. He could see the little fucker being that way, bossy and determined and daring people to marginalize him even then. Justin was a fighter; it was one of the things he admired most about the kid. "How'd he end up with the name Justin?" The words were out of his mouth before they'd registered. Fuck, what was he doing? Having a little heart-to-heart with the mother-in-law?   
  
"Craig wanted to name him after his father, Russell, but I didn't particularly like that."  
  
"Oh." He wanted to leave it there, but they were trying to make nice. "So, uh, you came up with Justin?"  
  
"It sounded regal to me, like an emperor."  
  
Despite himself, Brian snorted. "More like a princess."  
  
Jennifer smiled. "I guess we all have our drama queen moments, don't we, Brian?"  
  
He wasn't going to ask what she was referring to because it would probably take them right back to the beginning of their conversation. "Tell me something, Jennifer." He picked up his own water and took a drink, noticing that the throb in his head had intensified. Briefly resting the icy bottle against his forehead, it dawned on him that he was getting another headache. He turned around, opened the cabinet, and took out the aspirin, shaking three onto the counter. "Craig has a job with a company that builds jet engines, right?"  
  
"Yes. TASI. Taylor Aviation Systems International. It's a family business."  
  
"And you helped him all those years establish that position, the faithful wife keeping the house and kids—all that shit?"  
  
"'All that shit' would probably drive the average man crazy," she said sounding a bit tart, "but, yes, that's what I did. There was a time when it was considered honorable to support your husband."  
  
"I'm not saying it isn't and I'm sure you're right. I'd be packing in the kids and the husband in about three hours."  
  
She studied his face. "I believe you would."  
  
"Especially with Justin as one of the kids."  
  
"Justin was a sweet kid—he still is."  
  
"Yeah." He thought about the seemingly endless string of nightmares, PTSD episodes, agonizing questions, angry flare-ups, and once again wanted to kick Chris Hobbs with a steel-toed boot for taking that "sweet kid" and making him into something different. And to think the motherfuckin' piece of shit only got community service. Fuck. "Anyway, my point is, why aren't you entitled to alimony?"  
  
"Well, my lawyer says—"  
  
"You need a new lawyer."  
  
Jennifer's eyes widened as she stared into his. "You think I do?"  
  
"I know you do. You're a middle—" He stopped, knowing he wasn't the only person sensitive about age-related issues. "—a woman of a certain status in life, an upper middle-class woman in the twenty-first century where the laws and values have changed, and yet Craig is calling all the shots. That's for shit. You need a barracuda lawyer who'll go after the son of a bitch and get you what you need: alimony, health insurance coverage for _both_ kids, and, yeah, even help with Justin's college beyond the amount he's covering the first semester."  
  
"He'll never agree to that unless Justin goes to Dartmouth."  
  
"The fact that he'll pony up more money if it's Dartmouth just proves he's got the cash. I'm guessing the lawyer would run with that and make headway especially before the right judge. Besides …" He came around the counter and walked toward his computer. "There are some provisions in the Pennsylvania divorce laws that cover children with physical disabilities."  
  
Jennifer followed him. "Provisions like what?"  
  
He pulled open a drawer in his desk and removed a manila folder, finding the information he'd printed out. "Provisions like the parent having a greater responsibility to help such a child with college expenses." He handed her the research he'd done. "Read it when you get a chance."  
  
Jennifer stared at the papers. "My lawyer never mentioned—"  
  
"Get another lawyer."  
  
"I can't believe you—" Jennifer stopped, biting at her lip. "Has Justin been talking to you about this?"  
  
"He wants to go to PIFA and, yes, he knows at the rate he's going, he's not going to get past the first semester." He wouldn't mention just yet that hell would freeze over before Justin had to drop out of PIFA … at least if he had anything to say about it. Chris Hobbs was _not_ winning that one. "So, we need to do what we can."  
  
"His hand—"  
  
"It'll get better." Fuck, he sounded like a PSA ad. That's what came from living with Mr. Sunshine-and-Smiley-Faces although, nowadays, that wasn't as true as it'd once been. "It's just going to take time, but Justin wants it all to happen immediately."  
  
Jennifer's face reflected a struggle he did not want to see. She repeatedly bent and straightened the stapled papers he'd given her until he wondered if he'd have to print out a new copy. "Brian, I was so negative when we first—"  
  
"Shut the fuck up," he said because he could smell an apology a mile off. He jumped up, stalking across the room toward his cigarettes, not willing to listen to her one more second. Fuck! Couldn't someone print out a goddamn web page without the world coming unglued?  
  
He heard her heels as she clacked across his hardwood floors. She came to a halt next to the couch where he'd landed and he clearly heard her sigh. "I know you hate sentimentality, so I only have one thing to say."  
  
"What's that?"  
  
"Take your aspirin."  
  
He turned his head then and saw her outstretched hand, the three tablets there, his water in her other hand. Their eyes met and they smiled at one another. Brian took the pills. What the fuck else could he say? "Thanks."  
  
One side of Jennifer's mouth went up. "You're welcome."


	3. Chapter 3

_[ ](http://photobucket.com) _

_~ Brian hated anything that had to do with his family, his childhood, any of that stuff, but he wanted to see it, he wanted to know more about him at that age. Had he been a happy kid? Mischievous? Serious? Scared? ~_

Brian stepped off the elevator Saturday afternoon around 2:00, and, since his arms were wrapped around a rather large, clunky chest, he kicked the loft door. "Justin! Open up!" he yelled, because he damn well did not want to put the fucker down again. It wasn't that big, maybe 30-by-20-by-20, but it was heavy and bulky, and he was tired of all the lugging around he'd done in the last few days thanks to Mom, the funeral, every fucking thing. "Justin!" He kicked again, a loud clank that echoed off the hallway walls.

The door slid back and Justin stood there, bare-chested, in a pair of sweats, his damp hair spiked in all directions. "Hi." He stepped back as soon as he saw what Brian had in his arms. "What's that?"

"A shit-load of nothing." He carried the chest into the living room. "Could you move the coffee table?"

The loft door banged shut. "Sure." Justin caught up with him, then pulled the table to one side of the sofa so that it sat unevenly, half on the rug, half off. "Something from your Mom's place, huh?"

"Yeah." He set the thing down in the middle of floor and they stood there staring at it like any minute it'd get up and walk off. He wished it would. A small gold and red chest pretending to be a steamer trunk, it had words like _Vin Bordeau_ and _Arc de Triomphe_ all over it, interspersed with bottles of wine, a woman in a large, black hat, the Eiffel Tower, and, yep, the Arc de Triomphe. The emphasis on wine seemed ironic since it was filled with his mother's junk. During their initial search of the house, looking for papers that might be important, they'd found it stuck in the back of her closet where no one would ever see it if they weren't looking. Maybe it was filled with secret stuff like that porn collection of hers, _Hot, Horny Geezers Over Sixty_. Or the key to the attic where they kept that crazy cousin. But, no, when he'd briefly opened it back at the house he'd found old photos and lots of papers—nothing more exciting than that. 

"It's just a bunch of junk I have to sort through—I'll need the floor space later." Brian spoke after a moment of silent contemplation, answering Justin's question. He wouldn't tell the kid he'd carried it to his car to take home because he knew if he was forced to spend one more second in his mother's house with his goddamn sister, he'd murder her right there on the living room's oriental carpet. After spending half his Saturday rummaging through clothes, books, and the like in a house filled with such crap, he needed a few shots of JB, a couple of joints, and some Justin. Especially the Justin part. "Uh, would you straighten that table?" he asked because unevenness like that drove him crazy.

"Sure."

As Justin complied, he let his gaze linger on the boy's taut stomach muscles, watching as they rippled with a youthful beauty that went straight to his dick. The elastic on the sweatpants must be overstretched because they hung low on his hips, barely covered the rising swell of his ass. "Hey," he said, feeling revived already, even the _idea_ of Justin's welcoming caresses making him instantly hard. "C'mere."

The coffee table now sitting all the way on the rug, Justin looked up, saw his expression, and a sudden smile twinkled to life. He came around the side of the couch to stand in front of Brian, hands flat on his chest. Rising on his toes, he slid his hands up Brian's chest until he could clasp his neck, fingering the hair at the back 'til Brian gave an involuntary shiver at the sensation. "Yes?" he breathed close to Brian's mouth. "You called?"

He raised an eyebrow, then pulled him in close for a kiss. Fuck Claire and her nastiness. Fuck his mother's death and the jumbled emotions it'd engendered. Fuck everything but this, the one reality in his life that made sense, although he couldn't say that because he'd sound like a pussy. Their lips met and he kissed Justin as if he were eating a sweet, juicy peach, working slowly, persuasively. "Hmmm," he murmured, scattering kisses down the boy's lithesome neck as he bent him backwards, "how'd you like to play the submissive houseboy who gets fucked by his master?"

As he was righted, Justin smiled into Brian's eyes. Hopping imperceptibly, he stuck out the tip of his tongue and fluttered his eyelashes "Your wish is my command, master." 

"Shit." He didn't want to admit it, but the kid's enthusiasm for all things related to _him_ was a huge turn-on. After all, when a beautiful blond looked at you with such adoration and spread himself out on any available surface whenever you asked, what else could you be but … very happy? Justin moved in for another kiss so he slipped both hands down the boy's back until he could put them around his slender waist, marveling as he did ten-fifty-ten-thousand times a day at the satiny texture of his warm skin. He pushed on the sweatpants, which easily slid off, pooling at Justin's feet. "Oops." Brian widened his eyes. "You seem to be naked." 

"That happens a lot around here." Justin wiggled in his arms, reaching for the buttons on Brian's jeans. "But I don't want to be the only one."

Brian seized his wrists. "I see that I need to take a firm hand with _this_ particular houseboy." He pulled Justin the few feet to the couch, and turned him toward it. Arms wrapped around, he pressed his erection against Justin's ass while he kissed the back of his neck. "Lesson number one," he whispered in a menacing voice as he captured Justin's erect cock and, with slow pressure, began to fist it. "Bad boys get punished. You know that, don't you?"

Thrusting his hips, Justin fucked his hand. "Oh, God!" His voice had dropped and taken on a shaky timbre. "Yeah, I heard you're a particularly _hard_ master."

"Yeah, I'm hard all right, little boy." Brian pushed against him to prove it. He remembered that there'd been no shower fuck, no teenage woody to take care of, not even a little good morning blowjob. Justin had still been asleep when he'd crept out of bed and gotten dressed, determined not to waste all of his Saturday with Claire. Well, that explained why the kid was good to go although, every day since the night of Gus's birthday that enthusiasm had increased exponentially. The punishment stuff though … too soon. He couldn't get into that yet, at least not the way they used to with the spankings, restraints, and all the other gadgets in the sex toys drawer. No, it couldn't be done. Even though he would disagree, Justin was still too fragile. 

Justin huffed in disappointment when he removed his hand, so he gave the kid a couple of careful swats on his delicious ass, the solid thwack echoing in the loft. "None of that!" Immediately, he whirled Justin around and gently pushed him down on the couch, watching the way his cock bobbed as he sat there. Damn, he was so young. Only someone his age could maintain that kind of erect position. 

" _That_ was my punishment?" Justin asked with a mock pout. "Wow, I think I'm gonna get away with a _lot_ of shit in this position…." He gave Brian a cheeky grin. "…sir."

Brian knelt on the rug in front of Justin, smiling at the surprise on the kid's face. "There are many different forms of punishment, my disobedient little slave." Hands on his shoulders, he guided Justin until he'd laid him flat. Then, holding him in place, he nipped and licked his way down that soft skin, leaving warm spit streaks in his wake. He paid particular attention to Justin's Adam's apple, his nipples, and his belly button, forcing him to endure the "torture" without moving though Justin could not bite back his gasps. Finally, burying his face in Justin's pubes, he inhaled his sweet Justin-bouquet, a combination of the Côté Bastide French soap he used, with its almond undertones, and the boy's own fresh scent. Pushing Justin's thighs apart until he was spread wantonly, he paused to throw him a severe look. "No moving," he intoned, trying to sound stern though he knew it would do no good. Then he took Justin's cock in his mouth, and went to work, lapping at the head long enough to make him crazy before deep throating him in one fluid motion. 

Justin arched, crying out, covering his face with both hands. "Oh, God, Brian—God!" he kept saying, the moans coming from him muffled, but enthusiastic. He grabbed the arm of the couch behind his head and tried to contain himself, but the rest of him wouldn't cooperate. Brian would've laughed if his mouth hadn't been occupied. Instead, he concentrated on his work, which, right now, was to drive Justin over the edge of the fuckin' cliff. Of course, he knew he might end up following. His own dick was certainly happy with the activity, leaving a nice little wet spot on his jeans as he worked. 

Being only eighteen, Justin couldn't stay away from that cliff very long and soon he'd tumbled off, yelling Brian's name one last time before he pushed up his hips, feet digging into the couch, and shot his load.

After taking a moment to clean up the kid, he gave Justin's dick one last gentle kiss before he moved up the boy's body. His stubble-covered chin dragging against Justin's skin, he arrived in time to see the kid's smile. "Round two," Brian said against his mouth, taking a minute to lick his bottom lip, "is after I shower."

Arms once again resting on the couch, Justin looked relaxed. "Do you want me to shower—?"

"I want you to lay here and let me get clean. I've been crawling around in fucking dust and dirt all morning." Brian took another long look at Justin's youthful form spread out like a buffet on his couch and wondered for the millionth time how he'd ended up a repeat visitor at this particular banquet. The one-fuck-no-names rule got trashed almost from the very beginning. The weird thing, though, was that Justin never _felt_ like a repeat. Every time they fucked, it was new and different. Maybe because the kid was so young, so totally into it? He was still trying to figure that one out. 

"You want some lunch?" Justin sounded sleepy, his eyes at half-mast as he watched Brian get up off the floor. "There's Mom's casserole, or I could make you a ham sandwich."

"Sandwich," he said, stroking the boy's cheek, feeling so much better than he'd felt a few minute before. Amazing what a little fucking would do to change one's perspective. Before he could stop himself, he'd sighed. "Uh, no mayo."

"Like I don't know."

Brian gave him his best smirk. "I'll be back, my impertinent little houseboy. Be ready for me."

***

It took Justin a few minutes to summon the energy to get off the couch. He wanted to drift off to sleep, so satiated he knew he could nap for at least a half hour. But that'd just earn him another "reprimand" and, although it would no doubt be as pleasant as the last one, he wanted to be helpful to Brian, especially right now. After all, he'd been dealing with his waste of time sister and the funeral all week long. He'd been tense, distracted, not sleeping well. Brian had done so much for him. Somehow, he wanted to return that favor. 

Managing to heave himself up, he found his sweatpants, and put them on, giving his cock a couple of slow pulls as he thought about the blowjob he'd just had. Damn, Brian never ceased to amaze him. Who would've believed he'd come through the door and service _him_? Wasn't it usually the other way around? Shit, not that he cared. These days, being able to have any kind of sex with Brian was wonderful and he would've gone down on the man in an instant if he'd asked.

The stuff with Brian, though … lately, it'd worried him. He always thought of him as being so strong, able to handle anything that came along, but living with him made him wonder if he'd been wrong about that. It could just be that _he_ was still so unnerved by everything and projected it onto Brian, but he didn't think that explained all of it. Like the nightmares. Okay, Brian wasn't behaving like him, screaming and crying and being a fucking wimp, but that didn't mean he wasn't having problems. He said things in his sleep sometimes. He tossed around in the bed like he was fighting or trying to get away from someone. He woke up looking more tired than when he'd gone to sleep. Not good. Not good at all and it worried him because there wasn't a whole lot he could do. He couldn't return the comfort he was getting from Brian—at least not so that Brian would notice. That would earn him a hell of a lot more than a sexy scolding although Brian wasn't being his totally unpleasant self these days, since the bashing. _I hate being treated like a delicate little flower,_ he thought as he headed for the kitchen. But fuck, what could he do? He was still messed up. Brian was too. And he couldn't fix either situation.

In the kitchen, he retrieved the smoked ham they'd bought from the deli down the street, the seven-grain whole wheat bread Brian liked, a tomato, and some lettuce, building the sandwich on one of Brian's black luncheon plates. Out of habit, he cut it on the diagonal, something he'd picked up at the diner, which, of course, made him think about work, his life, everything he used to do and now wasn't. Okay, _some of it_ he wasn't doing. He'd worked a few shifts at the diner, and he'd registered for fall classes at PIFA. The PIFA thing really made him nervous, though, because despite what they'd said when he left rehab, his hand was still iffy. Justin flexed it like he could reassure himself that way. Brian had been helping him with his exercises and the hand was definitely stronger. That was progress and he wasn't supposed to be fretting, which was a lot harder than he thought it would be. 

After he put all the fixings back into the fridge, he pulled out a couple of Tecates and set Brian's next to his sandwich. Okay, good. Feeling silly and knowing he was laying himself open for jokes about being the "little wife" he took a napkin out, folded it, and set it next to the plate. Why'd Brian think things like that were girly? It was just part of doing something right. Shrugging, he popped the top on the other beer and took a long swallow, the cool brew filling his mouth with a fizzy intensity he always loved. He better chug it fast, though, because Brian didn't like him drinking while he was taking pain meds, and it pissed him off sometimes when—

Justin took a deep breath. Okay, too many negatives. Time to spin the positive dial. So … how would they spend the rest of the day? Brian had work to do, like always, but he seemed to be in a playful mood and had all but promised more sex as soon as he was clean. Which was just fine with him. You didn't get more positive than that, and he had a lot of time to make up for.

He wandered back to the living room and stared down at the chest Brian had brought. What was inside? Old junk probably. Brian's mom had been, what? In her seventies? So, she had a lot of stuff and now Brian had to look through all of it so that nothing important was lost. God, he'd hate to have to do that with his mom. _Even Dad._ The thought was inevitable even though it'd been awhile since he'd heard from his father. Shit, he shouldn't think about Dad, not if he really wanted to maintain the positive vibe. He'd just get depressed.

Crouching next to the chest, Justin stared at it even harder. Could he open it and look inside? Probably not. It was private, Brian's stuff, and he wouldn't like it if he looked inside and messed around with the contents. For a second, Justin chewed his lower lip while he listened to the sounds in the loft. Yep, shower still going. He took another slug of beer and then set the bottle aside. Maybe he could just take a peek? Brian would never know.

It wasn't locked so all he had to do was push on the clasp and open it. He peered inside and found a number of tidy piles contained by wooden inserts. A stack of letters tied with string. A file box with daisies on it. A couple of large manila envelopes—the kind that closed with metal clasps. And that was only the first layer. _At least she was neat,_ he thought as he moved a few things and looked underneath. He saw a big blue envelope with the word "PHOTOS" on it in large block letters, and pulled it out. Maybe he could find a picture of Brian as a kid. He'd never seen anything like that and he'd always wondered what he looked like. Brian hated anything that had to do with his family, his childhood, any of that stuff, but _he_ wanted to see it, he wanted to know more about him at that age. Had he been a happy kid? Mischievous? Serious? Scared? Kids tended to show their feelings more than adults. He wanted to look into Brian's eyes when he was small and see for himself what he'd been like then. It was important, although he wasn't sure why. Maybe because it would deepen the picture he had of Brian?

Justin sat down on the rug next to the chest, his legs crossed. He looked over at the closed bathroom door, and then opened the envelope. He found a bunch of photos inside and right away saw one of Brian, plucking it out of the pile. A gorgeous little dark-haired, dark-eyed kid staring into the camera without cracking a smile. He was standing in front of a smiling man who crouched behind him, his arm around the child. Was that Jack? Hard to imagine the man had any tender feelings for Brian, at least, that's the impression Brian always gave … if he talked about Jack at all. But, wow, Gus looked _just_ like Brian at the same age. Quickly, he shuffled through a few others, finding a little girl with Brian in some of the photos, a woman who must be his mom, and other people too, people he couldn't identify. He studied another picture of Brian, taken when he was older, maybe Molly's age. He saw the look of defiance that had become Brian's trademark expression, an anger that masked the hurt underneath. Sorting through more pictures, he found some of a teenaged Brian, maybe his age or a little younger. He'd seen _those_ kind of pictures before, though, when he lived with Debbie and, with glee, used to go through the ones Michael had, especially all the yearbooks that showed—

"What're you doing?"

Justin jumped. "Damn, Brian! You scared me!" He looked up to see the man glowering down at him. Uh-oh. "I was …" He swallowed. "…snooping?"

Brian had on a pair of soft gray sweatpants and was drying his hair with a towel. He did not look amused. "I fucking go away for ten minutes to take a shower and you break open the family stuff and start rifling through the pictures?"

"I just wanted to see a picture of you."

"I'm standing right here."

"I meant as a child."

Brian threw the towel aside and crouched next to him, grabbing the pictures out of his hands. "Shit. So you can do what, put it in a frame and coo over it? Give me a fucking break."

"No, I was just curious and—"

Brian gave him a patently false cheery smile. "You know what they say about curiosity, grasshopper." He tossed the pictures into the chest. "The best thing I can do with this shit is start a fire." He moved to close it.

"No, wait." Justin blocked his arm. "You can't do this, Brian. This is part of your history, of who you are."

"Fuck history. It needs to be trashed."

"No, you can't do that!" He wasn't sure why it upset him to hear Brian talking like this, but it did. Maybe because if there was ever someone who needed a family, it was Brian. Sure, he had Lindsay and Michael, Debbie, Em—the whole gang. But didn't he need a flesh-and-blood family not to mention some great times to remember about them, a few pictures to show Gus when he was older, all that good stuff? "I …" He swallowed again when he saw Brian's pissed off expression. "You need to have family photos even if—even if your family wasn't the best in the world. Here, look." He took the photos back out of the chest, shuffling through them once more. "You with your mom, your dad, even Claire." He held one up. "Who's that? Not your dad, is it?"

Brian's glare hadn't lessened, his eyes a green so dark the color had almost disappeared into a smoky brown, but he shifted his gaze to the photo. "It's my uncle. His name was Charles," he said in a flat voice, not looking happy.

"And the woman?"

"Aunt Bernice, Mom's sister."

He pulled another one out. "Who's this? Are you being baptized?" The photo showed a minister with a man and woman. And a baby. "Is that you?"

"Justin, this is ridiculous."

"No, it's not. Come on, Brian." He turned the photo over and saw writing on the back. " _Brendan Connelly's christening_. Who's that? A friend?"

"I don't know," Brian growled. "And I don't fucking care."

Justin found another photo. "That's you, right?" he asked, pointing to a kid on a swing. He indicated the little girl who stood next to him, all ribboned ponytail, and gap-toothed smile. "She must be another of your childhood friends." 

"I fucking don't remember."

He flipped the photo over, reading. " _Brian with Andrea Pettibone._ "

Brian's expression altered just a tad. "Fuck. I remember her. Nasty little twat."

"You see? It's history. This is important stuff, stuff you should keep."

Justin reached for another photo.

"No!" 

Justin froze. Brian's voice had taken on a tone he knew well even if he hadn't heard it for a while. 

Brian snatched the photos out of his hands, threw them into the chest, and slammed the thing shut. "Enough! I came home to get away from that shit, not to be reminded of it." He sprang to his feet and went to the kitchen. 

A second later, Justin heard a beer bottle being opened. He dared to raise his eyes and saw Brian standing by the stainless steel counter rubbing the back of his neck. Fuck. He'd screwed up big time, hadn't he? _You never learn, do you, Justin? Never._

"Get the box." Brian slammed down the beer bottle. "I want to roll some joints."

Justin stood up, cast one last look at the chest filled with such intriguing pictures and then put it out of his mind. He went toward the bedroom where the drug box was kept. He fuckin' hoped he'd be able to get back in Brian's good graces before the day was over. Otherwise, it was going to be a very long day and an even longer night.


	4. Chapter 4

[](http://photobucket.com)

_~ He slammed the flat of his hand against the table. "There have been times when I fucking thought I'd lose my mind except for Brian, so don't you dare sit there and talk to me about him being some kind of pervert!" ~_

  
When he finished his latest shift at the diner, shortly after noon on Wednesday, Justin was tired— _tired_ but not exhausted. That was good. Dr. Radnor said he had to build up his strength and endurance, so he'd done both by walking so many times with Brian and now it'd paid off. As he headed down Liberty toward the bus stop, he felt proud of what he'd done even if it was such a little thing. _Every small step counts._ Isn't that what Miguel always told him when he was in rehab? You couldn't focus on the way things _had_ been. If you did, you'd kill yourself and just be done with it. No, you had to focus on your victories no matter how silly they might seem to "normal" people.  
  
Justin scowled as he made it to the bus stop, looking up and down the street. No bus. He checked his watch. He had fifteen minutes before he was due so the bus better be on time. Being late … well, he just didn't want the disadvantage it'd bring. He scuffed his feet, rattling the change in his pocket, and pondered not being "normal." Sure, there was a huge philosophical argument there because how did you define "normal" anyway? In Siberia, drinking yak's blood might be totally the thing to do. Yet, if you did it here, in Pittsburgh, you might get accused of being a vampire or something. Still, since he came out, the word had lost all meaning, so why the hell was he ultra-sensitive now because he had a gimp hand and might keel over at any second, jerking and drooling while he had another seizure?  
  
He squeezed his eyes shut. _Fuck._ He wasn't having much success today being positive. He had a naturally "sunny disposition," or at least, that's what Mom said. The bashing, though, seemed to have changed that to one degree or another because he didn't feel sunny anymore … okay, sometimes he did, but sometimes he didn't. Maybe his current mood had more to do with the fact that both he and Brian had seemed "off" the last few days? That incident last Saturday … it'd pissed Brian off in a big way. He'd even gone out for a few hours later that night, tricking, probably. Which he hadn't done in awhile. Not that it'd surprised him because it hadn't, but, shit, the family stuff just did not sit well with him, at all. It'd been a stupid thing, what he'd done, and he wondered once again why he didn't have better control of himself. Had he always been that way, or did it have something to do with the bashing?  
  
An old bus that looked like it'd come straight out of the junkyard pulled up, its clanking engine and exhaust fumes announcing its arrival. Justin boarded, and dropped his money into the slot, sitting in a seat close to the door because he only had about a mile to go and didn't want to miss his stop. With a firm kneading motion, he rubbed his hand, which had started to give out about an hour into his shift. He hated how Debbie kept an eye on him, switching him to something less strenuous as soon as she saw him spilling coffee, water, whatever. It made him feel like some kind of special needs kid in a work-training program. God, what if he had a seizure right there in the middle of the diner? Not outside the realm of possibilities at all. He'd be carrying a tray with a couple of orders on it when, bam, down in the middle of the floor he'd go. All the fags in the joint would have a great view of him twitching in the middle of fried eggs, bacon, toast, and spilled coffee.   
  
_I really need to not think about this shit,_ he thought, because he knew it could get ugly. There were worst things than being him, okay? Like being HIV positive, for instance. Losing an arm or leg. Not having a family. So, shut up, just shut the fuck up.  
  
Besides, there was always Problem B, the fuckin' PTSD episodes, and those could be triggered by stress. He didn't need that either, here, or anywhere, because he pretty much relived the entire bashing every time one happened. _Deep breaths,_ he told himself as he closed his eyes, trying to focus on relaxing his muscles the way he'd been taught. He opened them a moment later and the first thing he saw was the guy across from him, a balding man in a gray sports jacket and jeans who had to be at least fifty, staring at him, his mouth opened as he slowly blinked. Immediately, Justin's gaydar started beeping. _Ew, like I'd ever be interested._ He already had the studliest older gay guy on the planet so why would he want a cheap imitation?  
  
Brian, though … there was another worry. Yes, they'd be going to all the Pride events on Saturday and that should be fun, but, still, stuff like that was the exception. Normally, Brian worked so hard, doing so much, trying to take care of him, not having much fun at all. Meanwhile, he pretended like it was easy, like none of it caused him any problems, like the bashing or its aftermath hadn't affected him in the least. But Justin knew it was bullshit and he sometimes wondered if Brian thought he was that dumb. Like the dreams. According to Brian, he was the only one who could have nightmares because he was the victim and Brian, supposedly, wasn't. More and more, he didn't think that was true or ever had been. Even if he did get the worst of it, physically, he knew they'd _both_ been bashed that day.  
  
The bus passed McKee Boulevard, and he got off as soon as he could, turning left when he hit the sidewalk. He walked a few blocks back to where Jackson crossed McKee. The coffee shop, Joltin' Joe's, was on the corner. His heart beat faster and he wondered if this had been a good idea. No one knew he was doing this so no one had been consulted. Maybe it was a mistake. He checked his watch. Almost 12:30. Good. _Well, right or wrong, here goes._ Pushing open the glass door, Justin went inside. Okay, he should be the first one here because—  
  
Then he saw him.  
  
Dad.   
  
Sitting at one of the little round tables, he looked anxious and angry at the same time, his hands around a paper cup of coffee as he stared off into space.  
  
Justin's stomach dropped. _Why'd I do this?_ he thought as he gazed at the man, who had on a gray suit, white shirt, and blue tie. Motherfucker. He couldn't even be bothered to come and see him in the hospital. Justin clenched his jaw. Of course, _Brian_ hadn't come either so what did that mean? That they were the same? Wow, Dad would love that comparison. If there's one person he loathed, it was Brian. Yet, his father had risked encountering Brian when he'd called a few days ago to ask if they could talk. That was something, wasn't it? That he wanted to talk? Although, why should he give the man one fucking thing because of everything he'd done … or hadn't done. With one last deep breath, he crossed the floor and stopped in front of the table. "Hi."  
  
Dad looked up, registering surprise. "Hi." Eyes raking over Justin, he looked pained and pissed off, struggling to cover both emotions with what passed as a pleasant expression. "Have a seat."  
  
Justin sat, feeling awkward as hell, but glad they'd decided to do this in a public place. At least, it'd keep their emotions in check.  
  
"Would you like some coffee?" Dad asked, trying to play the gracious host although that'd always been Mom's role in the family.  
  
"No, thanks." Justin unzipped his blue sweatshirt, not at all comfortable with the way Dad was staring at him. "Why'd you want to see me?" he asked much too abruptly, digging his fingernails into his denim-covered knee.  
  
Dad lost his grip on the coffee cup and stared at his hands where they ended up pressed to the table. "How, uh, are you?"   
  
"How the fuck do you think I am? I was in the hospital for two weeks, in a coma. In rehab for another month. Where were you, in the Amazon jungle somewhere, out of touch with civilization?" The words came out in a heated torrent, one he didn't try to stop. "Far as I know, you still live somewhere around here."  
  
"I do."   
  
"And you couldn't be bothered to see if I was alive or dead?" he asked and then knew he'd said something similar to Brian. Shit! He was not going to get into some kind of mind-trip thing comparing one to the other. "It was even in the papers or did you conveniently miss that too?"  
  
"At the time I thought—"  
  
"You thought what? 'He's not my son anymore so why should I give a fuck?'"  
  
His father's gaze lifted and, for the first time, he looked into Justin's eyes. _He looks old._ That was Justin's first thought. Old and worn out and … defeated? His sandy blond hair was thinning, he had lines in his face that hadn't been there before, and, somehow, he didn't look healthy. Fuck, was he sick? Was this a thing like when Brian's dad visited him, to tell him about the cancer? Shit! No way. That would not happen because it would be so clichéd and Hollywood-ish, father and son coming together in a rush of emotion around someone's impending death. Besides, they could've done that in June, after Chris and his bat. Fuck it all! He was not going to give Dad a break and be nice even if it _was_ true. No fucking way.  
  
"I don't know what I thought," Dad said finally, in answer to his question. "I was … a lot of things, things you never saw." He chewed on his lower lip then seemed to realize what he was doing and stopped. "Scared for you and angry at the guy who did it and angry at … Brian for causing—"  
  
Justin launched himself forward, arms pressed against the table. "He didn't cause anything and if you're going to talk about him that way, I'm leaving."  
  
"Justin, even you have to admit that if he hadn't been there you never would've—"  
  
"You don't know what you're talking about, Dad." Nor was he going to tell his father how he'd antagonized Chris Hobbs because why the fuck should he? It'd just make him wrinkle his nose in disgust … again. "Brian saved my life. Do you get that? Chris would've killed me if Brian hadn't been there to protect me while I was lying unconscious on the cement. He's the one who called 911, then he stayed with me all the way to the hospital and remained there until I was out of danger. Plus, he's taking care of me now."  
  
His father's mouth drew itself into a tight line. "I don't really want to talk about what _Brian_ is doing for you, Justin. He's the one who got you into this whole mess back when it first began."  
  
He leaned forward even more, feeling the strain on his arms. "No, he didn't." He spoke slowly and distinctly, knowing he was getting way too upset. "I went to Liberty Avenue that night to get laid and—"  
  
"Would you keep your voice down?" Dad whispered urgently.  
  
"—and if it hadn't been for Brian, who knows what kind of scum I would've ended up with?"  
  
"A twenty-nine-year-old man picking up a boy of seventeen who—"  
  
"How old is the woman you're dating, Dad?" Justin asked, his voice tough as he lashed out at his father.  
  
"That doesn't mean—"  
  
"How old?"  
  
"Lori is … twenty-eight, but that's different because we're—"  
  
"And you're forty-five." Justin sat back in his chair, arms crossing his chest. "Seventeen years difference."  
  
"But we're both adults!" Dad's voice rose in frustration. "You weren't."  
  
"I hate to tell you this, Dad, but the age of consent in the state of Pennsylvania is _sixteen_. Maybe I couldn't vote then or join the military, but as far as the commonwealth was concerned, I could have sex with anyone I wanted to … even Brian."  
  
His father's expression was unyielding. "So, you don't think he's a sexual predator? Or once was?"  
  
Why did it surprise him that the conversation was going downhill so fast? "I'm not gonna argue with you about Brian. He's part of my life, a really important part. He took me in and helped me when no one else could. And whether you want to hear it or not, I love him. I've always loved him. He's a good person and he's done a hell of a lot more for me in the last year than you have." He slammed the flat of his hand against the table. "There have been times when I fucking thought I'd lose my mind except for Brian, so don't you dare sit there and talk to me about him being some kind of pervert!"  
  
His father reared back, the expression on his face somewhere between amazement and anger. "Okay, okay," he said the minute Justin stopped. "I'm sorry. I should've guessed that you—hell, I _do_ know that's how you feel. I didn't come here to continue an old argument, believe me. Let's—can we start again?"  
  
"Just tell me why you asked me to come here, okay? I need to get home. I wanted to take a nap before dinner."  
  
"It was actually two things."  
  
"Spit'em out!" He was channeling Brian, but it pissed him off royally that his father was talking to him like that, and, well, suddenly he was _so_ tired. Shit, it felt like someone was pressing down on his shoulders, hard. Why'd he agreed to this? He should've known it would be nothing but more of the same bullshit he'd endured ever since Dad found out he was gay.   
  
His father took a drink of his coffee, nodding at Justin as he set it back down. "Okay, uh, I wanted to tell you about the health insurance."  
  
Justin went cold. "You're taking me off the policy?"  
  
"No, no! I'm _not_ taking you off. That's what I wanted you to know."  
  
Justin blinked. "Mom said—"  
  
"I know. My lawyer is contacting hers. It'll remain as part of our divorce settlement." His father examined his hands like he'd never seen them before. "I never should've made a threat like that so—"  
  
"Then why did you? Fuck, Dad! Do you know the kind of stress she's been under trying to take care of me while I'm recovering, watching out for Molly, and working to support herself? Don't you fucking have any feelings about her, any consideration?"  
  
"Justin, this has taken me longer to … well, to process, than it's taken her. I'm doing the best I can."  
  
He stared at the man, hearing a note in his voice that made him stop and listen. Did Dad have a straightforward feeling, one that wasn't about anger or homophobia or pushing him away? "What's the second thing?" he managed to say without sounding completely pissed off and dismissive.   
  
Dad reached for the coffee then seemed to think better of it. He put his hands into his lap and went back to staring at them. "It's, uh, it's about you and I."  
  
"What about us?"  
  
"I've made … well, a lot of mistakes, and it finally dawned on me that I was … that I'd lost you." He managed to lift his eyes, gaze on Justin. "I saw that it would soon—and in fact, maybe it already has—become permanent. I didn't … I don't want that."  
  
Unfortunately, the words didn't tug at his heart the way they would've in the past. No. He couldn't let them. Many times during the last year that'd been one of his fondest wishes, that he and Dad could work things out, that they could have a somewhat normal relationship. He used to daydream about it, imagining Dad picking him up from school or taking him out for dinner, doing _something_ with him. In his version, they talked and his father asked about Brian, wanted to know his plans for college, and was even interested in his art. Fuck. Justin tried not to let the pain show in his eyes because there could be a catch here and he sure as shit was not going to be sentimental and foolish about the whole thing. "How would that happen?" he decided to say. "What's that saying about water under a bridge?"  
  
"It'd happen like this." Dad made a gesture that encompassed the whole room. "We'd meet and talk, get, uh, reacquainted."  
  
"Nothing would ever be resolved, Dad, unless you're willing to accept me the way I am and anything like that would obviously include Brian since he's my lover."  
  
His father closed his eyes. "I know that, Justin, and I … I'm willing to work on my end of that, to try to understand things from your point of view." Opening his eyes, he stared at Justin. "But I can't promise that it'll happen overnight. I have years of being who I am, who I was raised to be, to overcome first."  
  
"You weren't raised to be a straight man, Dad. You were _born_ straight. Unless you can grasp that fact, I don't know that we have much to talk about."  
  
"I'm … willing to consider that."  
  
"Consider it? Am I supposed to be pleasantly surprised and grateful that you'll ease up on your attitude that much?"  
  
"What do you want me to say, Justin? That I totally accept you and your lifestyle? You know I don't, but I'll—"  
  
"It's not a lifestyle. Oh, fuck it! Why even try? This is insane!" Justin jumped up from the table and a moment later had pushed open the coffee shop door and was halfway down the street.  
  
He heard quick footsteps behind. "Justin!" His father had followed. "Stop, please? Listen to me."  
  
He turned on his heel and for an instant the traffic noise, the potent smell of coffee, the chill wind blowing around them—it all made him dizzy, made him want to escape, to sleep, to go somewhere where he didn't have to think or feel. Fuck. He took a deep breath. "I was born this way, Dad. I'll always be this way. And being nice to me in hopes you'll be able to make me straight just isn't going to work."  
  
His father's forehead wrinkled, his eyebrows askew. "I'm not doing it turn you straight. I'm doing it because you're my son."  
  
Unable to meet his father's eyes, Justin looked around, studying the cars, the people on the street, the buildings. He saw the two of them reflected in the storefront to his right, two blue-eyed blonds, a father, and son—anyone who took the time to look would see that. But what else would they see? Anything worth saving? Anything good at all? "So you … want to talk. Again? That's what you're asking?" he managed to say though it was hard to breathe.  
  
"To communicate, in some form. Maybe exchange e-mail addresses, cell phone numbers."  
  
Justin focused on the sidewalk under his feet because he couldn't stand to look at the reflection one minute longer. He tried to think logically. Was there hidden danger here he couldn't see? Yes, of course there was. Maybe Dad had some kind of agenda, something that would eventually bite him in the ass if he opened himself up to the man again. He should just walk away, now. Not take the chance. Get as far away from Craig Taylor as he could and stay there. That was the sensible thing to do, right? Yet … he'd never been one to run in fear, especially not when there was a chance, however small, that things might work out. Maybe his father was being sincere? Was that even a possibility? "Uh, give me your e-mail address," he heard himself say. "I'll … let you know. I need to think about it."  
  
"Here. You probably remember this." Dad handed him a business card with the e-mail address, craig.taylor@tasi.com, on it. "And let me give you a lift. My car's just—"  
  
"No, really, that's okay." He took a step back, pointing down the street. "Tremont's only a few blocks away."  
  
Something that looked like sympathy bloomed in Dad's eyes. "You seem tired. It'll get you to your nap sooner."  
  
For a stunned minute, tears filled Justin's eyes. God, how long had it been since his father had shown _any_ concern for him, no matter how small? Like when he'd been a kid and had fallen off his bike. How Dad would come running down the street, acting like he wasn't alarmed when he obviously was. Dusting him off, checking to make sure none of his limbs were broken, giving him a little hug while praising his courage. Fuck. Justin kept his head down, blinking to clear his eyes. Yeah, he was tired all right. It'd descended upon him like rocks sliding down a mountainside. "Okay," he said finally because otherwise, they'd be standing there forever and now he needed that nap. He raised his eyes and saw the look on his father's face and, yeah, maybe, just maybe, that was distress in those blue eyes.   
  
Maybe.


	5. Chapter 5

[](http://photobucket.com)

_~ He opened his mouth to counter Brian, to explain to him that he knew a flashback episode when he saw one, to tell him that just because he'd been silent and glassy-eyed instead of yelling and behaving like a fool didn't mean he wasn't suffering a major freak-out. ~_

Even though it was barely 7:00, the Saturday morning garage sale trolls were already out in force. Brian parked the Jeep in the first spot he could find, glancing at Justin as he pulled on the brake. Had it been a good idea to bring the boy along? Yeah, he didn't want to leave him alone in the loft, not after last night and fuckin' Chris Hobbs. If the place where the two had met wasn't a hospice, he'd make time to go over there and stuff Hobbs's mop down his goddamn throat for what he'd said to Justin. To make it even worse, he was almost sure Justin hadn't told him the whole story. It wouldn't surprise him if he'd had one of those fuckin' PTSD episodes. He'd lied about them before. "You have to be patient. Healing takes as much time as it takes." That's what Dr. Radnor said during Justin's last appointment along with his usual bullshit about Justin seeing a therapist. In moments like this, though, he wondered. It seemed to be one step forward and two back. Still, maybe Justin would've been better off at home, missing all the Kinney family drama Claire always brought with her. Brian pocketed his keys. He had no fucking idea which would've been better, he just didn't want to let Justin out of his sight. "Come on." He shoved open the door.Justin joined him on the sidewalk, craning his neck to take in the sights as they walked toward the house. "So, you grew up here?"

"Yeah." He glanced at the row of white clapboard houses with their brick chimneys and tiny, neat lawns. "Not what you're used to, huh?"  
It took Justin a second to realize what he meant. Then he chuckled. "My old neighborhood isn't that ritzy."  
  
He slid his hand around the boy's shoulders, tracing the firm muscles beneath his fingers. "No? Those gold-plated fire trucks weren't a give-away?"  
  
Justin laughed and then they'd arrived, the driveway, the front yard, the whole fuckin' place strewn with his parents' clothing, furniture, jewelry—all kinds of shit for the garage sale his sister had insisted on throwing at the family home. He spotted Claire running around like a chubby chicken with its head cut off. Why did she feel this need to sweep up all the pieces of their parents' lives and dispose of them in such quick fashion?  
  
"Thank you," Claire said with a too-cheery smile as she accepted cash from a gangly woman in a straw hat and too-large sweater. She looked up from the box where she was stowing the woman's money, saw him, and then cut her eyes to Justin. Claire frowned, smoothing the puke green sweatshirt she was wearing before she slammed the top of the cash box shut. "You don't trust that I'll give you half the proceeds, Brian? I told you—"  
  
"You can keep it all. I don't give a fuck." And, no, he didn't trust her, and never had, but that shouldn't be news to her. "You found Mom's jewelry box, remember? You called me and—"  
  
"Right, right, right." She waved a hand, then looked at Justin again.  
  
It occurred to him that Claire had never met Justin. "This is—"  
  
"Your … friend. Yes, I gathered that." She grabbed the moneybox and bustled past them. "John!" she yelled in a voice like a longshoreman. "Let me know if someone wants to buy something, okay?" Looking over her shoulder, she gestured toward the house. "Come on, I'll show it to you."  
  
"Does it have real jewelry in it?" Justin whispered to Brian as they followed her.  
  
"Fuck, no." As they went through the front door and into his parents' house, he paused, curved a hand behind Justin's neck, and drew him in close for a kiss, warm lips meeting for only an instant. "It's mostly cheap junk, but Claire doesn't know the difference." They followed her down the hallway then went left into the dining room.  
  
"This is it." She set down her cash box, and waved a hand at the thing where it sat on the dining room table. "It was in the attic. Kinda weird." She tucked her hair behind her ears, and stared at him with big cow eyes.  
  
Brian examined a cherry wood chest, using a finger to trace the intricate filigree pattern etched into the double doors. He pulled those doors open and found a series of stacked drawers inside, the top ones narrow in depth so that they could hold little more than rings, but the ones on the bottom more roomy. Knobs on the back of each door held tarnished gold chains with pendants attached to them: a cross, a heart, a faux diamond. He picked up the diamond, and scrutinized it. Yeah, fake—definitely. "So what the fuck do you want me to do about this?" he asked Claire because he still wasn't clear why she'd so urgently requested his presence.   
  
She gave him an exasperated frown. "I don't know what's real and what's not. You're Mr. Rich-and-Fancy so I thought you'd know." She jerked open a drawer to reveal rows of earrings. "Look at all of it! And why'd she have it in the attic? That's just stupid. I mean, she must've stopped using the jewelry or something."  
  
"It's costume jewelry," he said as he sifted through the faux pearls and paste diamonds. His mother had worn little jewelry except her wedding ring, gold earrings, and the occasional set of pearls, so what was this all about? He checked the other drawers. Hmm, no pearls, no real gold, nothing. Maybe they were in her dresser drawer? But, shit, why the fuck did he care? "Claire, this is nothing but junk. Why do you need me to tell you that?"  
  
"Then can I—" Claire looked down the hall toward the open front door. "What's he doing?" she asked in a suddenly outraged mom's voice. She gave Brian one last glance then turned away. "John?" she called as she scurried toward the front door. "What are you doing? Stop that! John!"  
  
"Hey, Brian?" Justin spoke as soon as she started yelling. "You know, my Grandma Mary had a chest like this, and it had a false bottom."  
  
Brian smiled suggestively, and reached over, patting the firm fullness of Justin's ass. "Don't give me ideas. And there's nothing false about your bottom."  
  
"Very funny."  
  
The screen door creaked open and then slammed. "You come here this minute!" Claire screamed from the other side.  
  
Brian pulled the bottom drawer halfway out. It contained ugly silver and gold bracelets as well as necklaces with red, purple, green, and blue stones that were so fake the plastic was peeling. He couldn't imagine his mother wearing any of this junk, but, fuck, she'd had many years to accumulate it so who knew how long ago it'd been purchased? "The drawer looks solid to me."  
  
Justin eyed it. "Can I …?"  
  
Brian knew the incident last week with the chest had made Justin wary of his own impulsiveness, which maybe was a good thing. "Sure." He waved a hand at the thing. "And pick out a pretty necklace for yourself while you're at it."  
  
One corner of Justin's mouth turned up, but he said nothing. He reached for the drawer and slid it all the way out. Treating each piece as if it were worth millions, he removed the jewelry before feeling the drawer's corners. "Ah." His face lit up. He pushed a little harder on one corner and the whole bottom gave way so that he could remove it.  
  
"What the fuck?" Brian leaned closer. A small drawstring bag lay in the chest's secret compartment. He pulled it out, surprised to find it had a velvet-like finish. Suede? A black suede drawstring bag concealed in the bottom of his mother's jewelry chest? Shit, now things had officially become weird. He hefted it. There was something inside, a necklace or bracelet by the feel of it. With a sudden chill, he had no desire to open it. _Put it back,_ he said to himself. _Just fucking put it back!_ The hair stood up on the nape of his neck and if Justin hadn't been standing there, waiting for him to do something, he might've done just that. "Give me a fuckin' break," he murmured instead, and jerked on the bag's strings to widen the top, then fished a finger inside, and drew out the contents.  
  
Sometimes, things did happen in slow motion because that's how the next instant played out. The rosary appeared, suspended from his finger, heavy, substantial, _real_. Moss green glass beads with a red swirl that gave the beads a marble-like appearance. A silver crucifix that looked Celtic in design. And even the rose, the silver rose that joined the crucifix to the main beads. All of it, just like in the dream. All of it there, swinging from his fingertips, warm, almost alive, a nightmare that had stalked him for years and had now dropped into _his_ all-too-real world. Not on a bridge. Not in the hand of long-ago child-Brian, the trusting, hopeful kid who no longer existed. No, in _his_ hand, in the here-and-now.   
  
Brian tried to blink and couldn't. For a horrifying minute, he couldn't move, react, even _see_ through the sudden haze that covered his eyes.   
  
This couldn't happen. Could not. It was a joke, a sick joke except how could that be? No one knew. Not a soul. And even if they did, how would they plant something like that in the jewelry box of a dead woman, a jewelry box hidden away in the dark recesses of an attic? There was no way.  
  
"Brian? Are you all right?"  
  
Brian stared at the green beads, eyes drawn inexorably to the red swirl in each one, a dark eddy of scarlet that seemed to push and shove its way in as if to obliterate the green.   
  
Red. Like blood.   
  
Blood red.  
  
A dizzy sense of falling assailed him though he didn't move a muscle or breathe or think or even blink when a familiar wooziness overwhelmed him.   
  
_There's blood running from the wound, spreading on the ground, on the scarf, everywhere. God, so much blood! I can't stop it. There's no way to make it stop no matter how hard I try. I'm cradling Justin, my heart beating in agonized fury because all I can do is sit here and watch the lifeblood run out of him. He's leaving, I can tell that just by looking at his face. He's leaving me, dying right here in my arms while I hang onto him feeling nothing but the cold press of cement beneath my knees. How can he be dying? We just kissed! Our warm lips touched as I wrapped my arms around his slender shoulders and we made a connection, the kind of deep connection I've never made before. Now he's dying?_  
  
"Brian, what's wrong?"  
  
He couldn't breathe. Sweating, but cold … God, so cold. How could he be cold and yet—not breathing, nothing coming. No coherent thoughts either, just blood … blood everywhere and a slowly intensifying feeling in the pit of his stomach.   
  
_How can there be this much blood? And where the fuck are the paramedics, the ambulance, the people who pulled out their cell phones and said they'd call 911? Where the hell have they gone? We need help! Right now! There's blood everywhere, can't you people see that? Blood, horrifying blood that's staining my hands—warm, sticky, the metallic smell polluting the air. Justin is getting cold, so fuckin' cold, so still, not hearing anything when I call to him, when I beg him to hang on. He's dying! The blood is running out of him and he's dying!_  
  
With a great intake of air and the bitter taste of bile in his mouth, Brian realized he was about to throw up. As he struggled against a heavy, intense nausea that had all but paralyzed him, he turned, ignoring Justin, ignoring Claire's voice somewhere off in the background, ignoring everything except the need to make it to the bathroom in time.  
  
_Fuck,_ he thought in a kind of agonized litany as he moved. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._

***

Justin was good. He kept his mouth shut and didn't say anything, standing close to the bathroom door, listening as Brian barfed without calling to him or making any kind of a fuss. His heart beat a little faster and he felt sick himself, but he took some deep breaths and held it together, for Brian. 'Course, he had no fucking idea what'd happened. Too much booze last night? Food poisoning? Or something a whole lot weirder, something that had to do with the jewelry they'd just found?   
  
When Brian finally came back out, pale and haggard and fucking freaked out of his mind, Justin remained silent and followed after him. Brian made a detour through the dining room to retrieve those prayer beads or whatever they were, slipping them back into their bag before he headed for the Jeep. He didn't speak to his sister, not one word. He just left.  
  
Justin left with him.  
  
Back at the loft, Brian threw off his jacket and sat down in the living on the sofa, legs splayed in front of him. He tossed the black bag onto the coffee table and sat there, staring at it like, with a puff of smoke, it would transform itself into some spooky demon from the nether world. Justin sat too, but still, he kept quiet. He wasn't an idiot and he knew something was seriously freaking out Brian. Since getting his head bitten off was not on his agenda, he kept his peace, holding back the bazillion questions he had. He even managed to stay still, not easy, but it was always a dead giveaway when he didn't.  
  
A green rosary? In a concealed compartment of his mom's jewelry case? Shit, that was a little creepy. He didn't want to speculate because he might freak himself out if he did, but the very first thing that came to mind when he watched Brian go pale and sweaty, was that he'd had a PTSD flashback episode. It figured that Brian's would be silently scary rather than loud and frightening the way his were. And it was no exaggeration to say Brian's demeanor back at his parents' place had been chilling: ashen and shaky, his eyes had been opened so wide it seemed like he'd pop a blood vessel. Of course, the only problem with that theory was, why? If Brian was doing the same post-traumatic thing he'd done, it was because of Chris Hobbs and his fuckin' bat, not some stupid rosary. That just didn't make sense.  
  
Justin played with one of the strings on his hoodie, wrapping it mindlessly around a finger, then letting it go. Maybe his encounter with Chris Hobbs last night was the event that'd somehow triggered Brian? But shit, that didn't make any sense either. Brian had heard about that when he came home drunk after drinking those stupid coolers. So, it took him twelve hours and some dumb beads before he flipped out? No, there had to be more to it than that.  
  
About twenty minutes later, Justin got up when it occurred to him that Brian might be dehydrated. Puking would do that to you. He brought water back for both of them and handed one to Brian. Sooner or later he wanted Brian to tell him what had happened so, as he sat there, he tried to formulate a plan of attack, something that might work and get him some information. Rule Number One needed to be deliberate lack of emotion. Brian hated emotion, especially the over the top kind. It was essential that he didn't come off all touchy-feely, cooing over Brian, and expressing his heartfelt concern. No, he needed to be matter-of-fact about it, dispassionate even. Otherwise, he'd never find out anything because Brian would shut down tighter than the tightest clam. Okay, quiet, and in control. There to help, but not be a pest. He tried to visualize himself in that role, like actors did, hoping that would help.  
  
He stole another glance at the black bag on the table, itching to examine it. No, don't touch it. Right, that was rule Number Two. Keep your hands off the mysterious item that'd caused this problem unless it was okay with Brian. That meant no snooping around, especially if Brian said not to touch it. Given Brian's current mood, that would be a disaster waiting to happen. Then the rosary might simply disappear and he'd never find out what it was or anything about it.  
  
Was there a Rule Number Three? Justin knit his brow, thinking as he rubbed the back of his neck. Okay, yeah, there was. No nagging. If Brian didn't want to talk about it, he needed to let it go. Give him a chance to process it at his own pace, to even _not_ talk. Shit, that would be the hardest rule to follow because he was about to burst with curiosity right now and they hadn't said _anything_ for an entire fucking hour.  
  
"Do you want to go meet the guys for breakfast?" Brian said just then. His voice sounded rough, like he'd been smoking too much.  
  
"Uh, whatever you want to do." After last night and the fuckin' reaction _he'd_ had to Hobbs, eating breakfast with Michael, Em, and Ted the morning of Pride had lost a lot of its appeal.  
  
"I'm not in much of a celebratory mood," Brian said after a moment's silence.  
  
Justin sipped his water, struggling to _not_ jump all over the obvious lead-in. "Okay, then let's skip it. You want me to make some coffee?"  
  
"You don't have to baby-sit me."  
  
"I'm not."  
  
"Yeah, you are," Brian said, his voice a soft growl. "Cut it out."  
  
Well, fuck.   
  
The silence returned and they sat there, the morning sun streaming through the front window.  
  
Finally, Justin stirred. Shit, this was getting them nowhere. He _had_ to find out what was going on because otherwise how could he take care of Brian or be any use to him at all? "Tell me," he dared to say in a voice barely loud enough to call a whisper.  
  
"Stay out of it."  
  
"How am I supposed to do that, Brian? I was right there, I saw what happened. Why won't you tell me?"  
  
"It's none of your business."  
  
He turned so he could look Brian in the eyes. "And me waking up in the middle of the night, sobbing with another nightmare, me freaking out at dinner when I have an episode, me staying up half the night, scared because I saw Chris Hobbs—that's _your_ business?"  
  
"That's different."  
  
"It's not different. It's the same damn thing."  
  
"No, it isn't. I agreed to help you out—to help your mother. You never signed on to look after me."  
  
"But I did! You and I are—" He shut his mouth, not even sure what that word might be. Boyfriend? Lover? Significant other? None of those worked for Brian, that's for sure. Fuck. What did work? They were _something_ to each other, right? They had to be. More than just fuck buddies, especially after all they'd come through. "We mean something to each other, so we watch each other's backs. We tell each other the truth." Which, of course, wasn't entirely true since he never told Brian about seeing Dad, but, shit, he couldn't worry about that now.  
  
Brian got up off the couch and went to his desk to retrieve his cigarettes. He stood there, his back to Justin, as he lit one. "Just forget it," he said, the finality in his voice not encouraging.  
  
Justin jumped up and followed, standing just behind him, clenching his hands into fists until he felt the bite of his fingernails. "How do you expect me to do that? The same way I forget your nightmares? The same way I forget the episodes you've had, the ones I'm not supposed to see? The same way I forget the fact that _you_ suffer too, just like me, except we're both supposed to pretend like that doesn't happen?"  
  
"You don't know—"  
  
"I _do_ know, Brian! I know we can't talk about anything that has to do with the bashing because that breaks some rule you've imposed on yourself and on me, a rule that's supposed to keep you strong. Only it doesn't keep you strong and today proved that."  
  
Brian turned, his eyes a deep, smoldering green. With a savage twist of his hand, he crushed out the cigarette. "What the hell are you talking about?"  
  
"I'm talking about you. About how you had a flashback episode today at your parents' house. About how you're scared to death to admit it, even to yourself."  
  
"You are fuckin'—"  
  
"I know, I know! I'm crazy! I only sleep next to you and watch you when you piss and see you shave every morning and let you fuck me every night, but what the hell do I know?" He raised his hands, palms up, in a gesture of surrender. "I might as well _be_ the fucking houseboy for all the good it does me."  
  
Brian stopped, whatever angry retort he'd been about to make silenced. Justin saw that he'd gotten to him with the houseboy remark because he looked different in a way he couldn't quite define, pained and perplexed. It was almost as if he had several masks in place, one on top of the other, like the layers of an onion. Maybe, right now, a couple of those layers had been peeled back and he was seeing the Brian who was closer to his real self. Damn, what an exciting thought that was. How often had he wanted Brian to let him inside, to trust him enough to open up even a little bit? "Tell me," he repeated, his voice dropping to an urgent whisper. "Please, Brian. Tell me."  
  
Then, just like that, in a moment that amazed them both, Brian told him. His shoulders relaxed just a tiny bit, his face softened imperceptibly, and, in a very straightforward voice, he began to talk. Justin held his breath, not moving as Brian laid out an incredible story: a nightmare he'd been having since he was eight years old, one that involved falling through the air, running down a dark, scary hallway, out onto a bridge, and, most importantly, a kid in a mirror mask who handed him a—oh, shit, shit, shit!— _green rosary_ with red swirls in it. Oh, my God. Justin wanted to look over at the black bag where it lay on the coffee table, but restrained himself, struggling not to react like the stupid twat Brian would accuse him of being if he became too excited. "So, you're telling me that this rosary is the same one in your dream … in this dream you've been having for—since you were eight years old?"  
  
Brian's features twisted like it was hard for him to admit even that much. Then he nodded.  
  
"And you … when you saw it, you kind of, well, flipped out?"  
  
Brian's eyebrow went up. "I was surprised."  
  
"You were more than surprised, Brian. You were practically comatose."  
  
"I was not."  
  
"I saw you!" He leaned a little closer, daring to touch Brian's arm. "What were you thinking?"  
  
"Nothing."  
  
"It was a flashback episode, wasn't it? I'm right about that."  
  
"Don't start with that shit, Justin. I told you, I don't have flashback episodes."  
  
He opened his mouth to counter Brian, to explain to him that he knew a flashback episode when he saw one, to tell him that just because he'd been silent and glassy-eyed instead of yelling and behaving like a fool didn't mean he wasn't suffering a major freak-out. But he stopped. He remembered Rule Number One—which was a good thing since he'd forgotten _all_ of the rules in the last few minutes. "Can I …" He pointed to the bag. "Would it be okay if I looked at it?"  
  
Brian shrugged. He found another cigarette and lit it, walking with Justin back to the couch where they both sat down.   
  
Perched on the edge of the sofa, Justin picked up the bag. Yeah, it was suede, or something similar, the kind of pouch used to store good jewelry or maybe pirate's gold. As he rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger, he could feel the beads moving inside. But, shit, he felt something else too, something you might not notice at first. Glancing at Brian, Justin opened the bag and dumped the rosary into his hands. He looked in the bag. _Oh, shit._ He pulled out the other item.   
  
A business card, folded into quarters.   
  
A fucking business card.  
  
Justin unfolded it and held it up for Brian to see. _Brendan Connelly,_ it said on the first line, followed by an address in New York City, a phone number, and an e-mail address.   
  
As he read the card, Brian's mouth dropped open. "Shit." He raised his eyes to meet Justin's. "Brendan Connelly? Who the fuck is that?"


	6. Chapter 6

 

[](http://photobucket.com)

 

~ 6 ~  
  
_Justin allowed himself some cautious excitement. Maybe this guy was related to Brian and he came from the good side of the family, the one Brian hadn't seen until now?_

  
"Brendan!"   
  
I'm throwing another load of junk into the dumpster in the alley when I hear Mr. Lesniewski call me, which turns out to be a good thing because it distracts me. As I've watched the old magazines and newspapers slide into the trash, I've felt a little morose … again. Haven't I been over this at least a dozen times? The pros and cons. Stay in New York, pick up the pieces, build a new life? Or a clean slate, move on, time to leave it all behind? And didn't I come to the conclusion I was doing the right thing? "I'm back here!" I call to him as I slam down the top of the dumpster and walk toward 75th. As soon as I turn the corner, he's right there. "Hey. What's up?"  
  
Mr. Lesniewski is the building's super, about sixty, lots of Albert Einstein gleaming white hair, black half-glasses hanging from a strap around his neck. A damn nice guy. He's let me into my apartment at least a hundred times when I lost or couldn't find my key and blushed when I gave him a bottle of Absolut for Christmas, like that'd never happened to him before in his life. People take supers for granted. Besides, it's New York and people are just like that here. It's not that they're unfriendly, they're just, well, busy. Now he fixes those gray eyes on me and says, without ceremony, "You're eating dinner with me. Tonight."  
  
It's Saturday, I'm leaving on Sunday, which he knows, obviously. I've already thrown out everything in the fridge. And I haven't given any thought to where I'll eat dinner. I mean, it's barely lunchtime. Damn, can I stand to eat dinner with him? Not that his cooking is bad because it isn't. And his company is delightful. It's just that I know I'll end up drunk if I do. Mr. Lesniewski likes to unplug his phone, get comfortable in his overstuffed chair, and tie one on. Vodka isn't all he drinks, so, if I ask him for scotch on the rocks, I could follow him into oblivion without even breaking a sweat. The trouble is, I'm trying to not let everything crash down because I'll get maudlin and that's not a pretty sight. "Are you sure?" I say. Stupid. Of course he's sure. He wouldn't have asked if he wasn't.  
  
"Seven," he says in that no nonsense voice. "You've been a good tenant. You'll be there." He turns then and heads back inside the ten-story building where we live.  
  
Standing there, I look down tree-lined 75th Street and think how much I like Jackson Heights, how much I'm going to miss the vibe in this neighborhood not to mention the fact that I can hop on the E train and be in Manhattan in twenty minutes. Shit. Rubbing the two-day's worth of stubble on my cheeks, I think about how much I love that place over on 73rd, the vegetarian joint. Their crepes … where will I find anything that tasty in Spokane? And the Costa Rican place on Roosevelt or the Mexican restaurant a little further down. Irreplaceable, especially for someone like me who can't cook.   
  
With an abrupt exhale, I shove my hands deep into the pockets of my jeans. Doubting my decisions is old news, something I can do in my sleep. My mother used to say I'd never marry because I wouldn't be able to make up my mind which girl I wanted. Being my mother, she assumed there'd be hordes of women after me. And there _have_ been a few who were special, yet, still, here I am, not married, not anything now that Kelly and I—  
  
_Fuck, no_ , the voice in my head says just then. Don't go there. If you don't want to be depressed, just stay away from the name, the relationship, all of it. And I know I better listen. Getting drunk with Mr. Lesniewski is one thing; going on a three-day bender, quite another.  
  
Anyway, here I am in New York, about 370 miles from Pittsburgh and Brian, yet, even though I haven't done anything to let Dad know I'm coming and I could really go anywhere I want, I've decided to head west toward home? Given all the years I've wanted to introduce myself to Brian, that makes a whole lot of sense. In fact, it's brilliant. I don't have a high IQ for nothing.  
  
Maybe I should give myself a break? After all, it's only been two weeks since Joan died. And I didn't know anything about her death until three days ago. So, I'd already made my plans and why should I alter them? New York … I have to get away. Too many memories, too much shit to deal with, and after Javier went back to Albuquerque, the rent was more than I could afford. Yeah, Brian has always been at the top of my list of people to meet, but his mother just died. Is this really a good time for him to find out about me?   
  
Somehow, I think the answer is "No."   
  
***  
On the way back from Pride that night, Brian had an arm around Justin as they made their way through the brightly festooned, rainbow-decorated streets. Earlier in the day, it'd been impossible to park anywhere close to the festivities so they'd walked the few blocks from Tremont to the parade route. Now, well after midnight, they were on their way back home. Amazingly, everything was peaceful and, well … nice. After all the craziness that morning at Claire's and back at the loft, and the flurry of phone calls they'd made when Justin discovered that fuckin' business card in the black suede bag, things had somehow managed to turn in a direction he never would've imagined. _More weirdness_ , he thought, but, no, "weirdness" wasn't the right word for the feeling between them right now.  
  
Somehow, through everything that'd happened, they ended up coming together rather than splitting apart, which, all by itself, had to be a major achievement. Okay, it was true that, earlier, back at Woody's, he'd been bothered by the way Justin kissed him on the shoulder and left him to his "wicked ways," presumably with those two ugly guys in the corner. Shit, after all they'd been through that day, it'd seemed wrong to just let the boy walk away while he found someone to fuck. Justin had been so easy about it too, which just made it worse. So, he'd done something he said he'd never do, something he counseled people against—he'd gone after Justin. They'd danced then and even though the song had been ridiculously romantic not to mention a fuckin' blast from the past, they'd stared into each other's eyes and communicated without a single word. Not that they hadn't talked because they did that too, yakking and laughing about stupid things like how much make-up it must've taken to cover Mikey's five o'clock shadow, and whether Lindsay had been successful in her attempt to out-vamp Leda. But in the end, it'd been the silent communication that'd pushed them into this warm, cushy place, a place like one of those force fields on _Star Trek_ where they could exist apart from the troubles around them. Stupid thought? Yeah. But right now, it was working for him.  
  
He glanced down at Justin and saw the smile on his face. "What are you thinking?" he asked without stopping to consider how inane that sounded. Shit. Oh, well. That's how it'd been going for the last hour and it hadn't killed him yet.  
  
Justin's smile widened, the happy glow in his eyes intensifying. "I'm thinking about the dancing," he said with a certain amount of shyness as if confessing some crime. "How wonderful it was."  
  
Brian gave him a little smirk, the kind Justin knew to ignore. "It was all right," he said, arm tightening around the kid.  
  
Justin laughed, gently pushing on him. "Fucker."  
  
He raised a hand, fingers folded in a Boy Scout pledge. "Guilty. And I'll prove it to you as soon as we get home."  
  
"Hmm, don't know if I'm up for that. It's been such a _long_ day."  
  
"Now who's the fucker?" They grinned at each other. Brian leaned down to nuzzle Justin's ear, nipping at his earlobe as he inhaled his familiar Justin-scent, which right now included cigarettes, and booze mixed with a sweetness wholly his own. "I think someone's asking for a long, slow fuck, the kind that could take _forever_."  
  
Justin shivered, never breaking their stride as they continued to walk. "Wow, I'll have to check my schedule to see if I'm available, but that sounds—"  
  
He pulled away from Justin enough to give him a smack on his firm bottom. "Don't be a smart-ass. Remember, there's always Ugly and Uglier back at Woody's."  
  
"They weren't that bad."  
  
"You really ought to do something about your eyesight."  
  
"Yeah? What if I start wearing glasses and the first thing I discover is that you're really _not_ this incredibly hot man?"  
  
"Impossible. Even if you were blind as a bat how could you miss hearing the way people rave about me?"  
  
"Yeah, they rave all right. 'That Brian Kinney—what an asshole.' 'Brian Kinney? I would rather be—'"  
  
Brian's cell phone rang. He gave Justin a you-are-so-fortunate-you've-been-interrupted look and took the phone out of his pocket, checking the display. Cynthia. Okay, maybe they'd get some answers now. "Kind of late for you, isn't it?" he said as he flipped the phone open.  
  
"I'm doing research work for my son of a bitch boss during the weekend when I'm supposed to be relaxing," she shot back without a moment's hesitation. "Be nice."  
  
"That _was_ nice." He'd asked her to see if she could find out anything about this Brendan Connelly because, frankly, her research skills were terrific and she had access to some databases that'd make the job a whole lot easier than it would've been for him. "So, tell me," he asked as they paused to check for traffic on Stuart Place.  
  
"Brendan Connelly is from Spokane originally." She switched to her business voice. "He's got a B.A. from Brooks Institute in Santa Barbara. And, yes, he lives in New York, but _not_ at that Whitestone address on the business card."  
  
"Yeah, but what about—" A metallic blue SUV roared by, the men inside whooping and honking when they spotted them. He tightened his grip just a little, rubbing Justin's smooth arm as they watched the car retreat. "What about finding this guy? I asked you to—"   
  
"I'm getting to that," she said, brusque and shut-the-fuck-up. "He's a freelance photojournalist and worked for _The Village Voice_ and … hmm, a local newspaper in Jackson Heights. That's also where he lives. I got the address from a very helpful woman at the paper."  
  
On the other side of the street, he knew they were only two blocks from home. Good. "Did you get a phone number?" he asked her pointedly, hoping to move the conversation along. Shit, come on. The guy was, what? An infant who was christened the same day he was? The mothers were blubbering so hard they got their rosaries mixed up so being such a good, Catholic boy, Brendan brings it back all those years later and gives it to that nice Mrs. Kinney? Something like that.  
  
"Yes, I got a phone number. Listen, Brian, according to this woman I talked to, he's _leaving_ the city. I tried the number she gave me, but it's been disconnected. Then I managed to get the super's phone number for the apartment building on 75th Street where he lives. He's in apartment 8C—I mean, Brendan Connelly is, not the super. Anyway, when I called the super, there was a message on his machine about apartment 8C being vacant starting _tomorrow_. So, the guy's getting the hell out of Dodge, soon."  
  
This whole thing was beginning to bore him. Right now, as his building came into sight, he'd rather think about fucking Justin than wondering who the hell this joker was. It'd seemed all weird and spooky right after the whole incident at Claire's but now … Okay, it was very strange that his business card had been in that bag. And it was weird that he'd found the rosary in the first place. Given everything in his life right now, though, did he have time to pursue this, especially when there was most likely a rational explanation? "Maybe he's going back to Spokane. Did you get an address there? I could write to him and—"  
  
"Brian, you have to go find him, _tonight_." Cynthia spoke in her you-need-to-listen-to-me-right-now voice, the one she normally only used during a sales presentation when he was missing something of major importance. "You need to meet him face-to-face."  
  
"You want me to hop in my Jeep and drive to New York City, right now? Why the fuck should I—"  
  
"Shut up, Brian. Just confirm this for me, okay? You were born on June 10, 1971, in Poughkeepsie, New York, right?"  
  
He realized Justin was listening intently to his end of the conversation, leaning into him as they walked up to his building. His fingers grazed the back of Justin's neck, the short hairs there tickling. Fuck, they had such a nice thing going … He took a deep breath. "Shit, Cynthia. You know damn well that's right. Why're you asking?"  
  
For a moment, Cynthia didn't speak. "You're right, I do know that. And you know what else, Brian?" She inhaled raggedly. "Brendan Connelly was born on June 10, 1971 … in Poughkeepsie, New York."  
  
***  
Thanks to a bad accident on the I-78, it took them eight hours to reach Jackson Heights, in Queens. Justin slept during a great deal of that time although he tried to stay awake and keep Brian company. A lot of good that did, though, because Brian had once again returned to a non-talkative state. Being with Brian was like riding on a roller coaster. One minute, you were cruising along the top, enjoying the view; the next, you were hanging on for dear life as you plunged downward a thousand miles a second. He'd been through every emotion known to humankind today—yesterday, really—and they just kept on coming. Justin rubbed his eyes with his knuckles, yawning as he tried to wake up, still wondering why they had to jump in the car and take off in search of Brendan Connelly. Just who the fuck was he? Brian wouldn't say. He'd looked strange when he got off the phone with Cynthia, but wouldn't tell him why. And pushing Brian twice in one day … not a good idea.  
  
"Okay, this is it," Brian said as he stopped the Jeep in front of a tall red-brick building on a pleasant street where leaves of all colors had accumulated on the sidewalk and in the gutter. Brian paused to look up at the building like maybe Brendan Connelly would wave to him from a window. "Now to find a fuckin' parking space."  
  
That took another ten minutes and a three-block walk back to the building, but soon they emerged from a wheezing elevator onto the eighth floor, looking for unit "C." As they walked down the hall, Justin heard a hot salsa beat coming from one of the apartments and smelled onions cooking. His mouth watered at the thought of huevos rancheros. Wow, what an interesting neighborhood Brendan Connelly lived in. He allowed himself some cautious excitement. Maybe this guy was related to Brian and he came from the _good_ side of the family, the one Brian hadn't seen until now? That would be great if he had a cool cousin or uncle or whatever he could visit sometimes, right? Even if Brian wouldn't admit he cared about family, he did … or he should.  
  
Soon enough, Brian stopped in front of an already opened door. Apartment C. He gave Justin a look although Justin wasn't sure how to interpret it, and then stepped inside.  
  
Following him, Justin saw a stack of taped up boxes and a sleeping bag rolled up in one corner. Otherwise, the place looked empty. A small apartment painted a nice shade of green, the floors were hardwood, and there was a little area for a table and chairs near the kitchen. Not bad, especially being so close to Manhattan. Then he saw movement out of the corner of his eye and realized there was a man standing in the narrow, galley kitchen off to one side, a white-haired man with a clipboard and pencil who looked up just in the few seconds since they'd come into the room. Right away, rather than reacting with a stranger's careful politeness, he gave Brian a warm smile. "You went all the way down there and forgot the coffee?" he said in the easy tone friends used to talk to one another.  
  
Brian froze, his eyes fixed on the man as they engaged in some kind of staring contest that made the hair on Justin's neck stand up.   
  
_Oh. Shit_.  
  
The man set his clipboard down and moved out of the kitchen until he could stand in front of Brian. He slipped on the glasses that dangled from his neck and, taking his time, did a thorough examination of Brian's face. "Well …" he said finally and then seemed to be at a loss for words. "I've known Brendan for about two years, but I never had any idea he had a—"  
  
"Where is he?" Brian said in that warning voice of his, the one you didn't ignore.  
  
The man waved a hand. "Take a left at the main entrance and look for a coffee shop with yellow chairs out front. It's called Grounds."  
  
Without another word, Brian turned. Taken by surprise, Justin stood there, eyes fixed on the man, the questions painfully bubbling up, demanding answers. God, what was going on?  
  
"Justin!" Brian barked.  
  
He turned, running to catch up, just barely making it to the elevator in time. "Why did he say that about coffee and how long he's known this guy?" he asked Brian with breathless curiosity as they descended.   
  
Brian stared straight ahead, lips compressed.  
  
"Brian?"  
  
"Not now, Justin."  
  
"But why—"  
  
"I said, not now," Brian told him in a rough voice.  
  
Justin closed his mouth. Shit. Brian looked like he was ready to blow up. Better be quiet.   
  
As they exited the elevator, he found himself almost running as he tried to keep up with Brian's long strides. God, he was pissed as hell. What had Cynthia told him that had created such a reaction? They walked in silence about two blocks before they saw the yellow tables and chairs, many of them occupied by people drinking coffee and eating pastries. Newspapers were spread out and right then he remembered that it was a sunny Sunday morning and these people were enjoying it. A yellow sign over the door said, _Grounds_ , but before he could take in anything else Brian pushed the glass door open and went inside.  
  
Justin followed him, struck by the delectable smell of brewing coffee and baking bread, wonderful aromas that made his stomach growl. Because he was speculating on whether they might be able to get some breakfast, he didn't realize that not only had Brian stopped, but he'd turned into a statue, his gaze fixed on someone. _What the fuck_? Justin thought when he caught a glimpse of Brian's face—pale, shocked, set. He followed his line of sight.  
  
Justin took two steps back.  
  
Oh my freakin' God.  
  
A guy stood at the pick-up counter, two cups of coffee in hand. His eyes were locked on Brian, but fuck, fuck, fuck! Justin gave his head an abrupt shake. Not just _any_ guy! _Brian_ stood there, looking at … _Brian_! Doubting his own eyes not to mention his sanity, Justin looked from one to the other, certain his head would explode. But no, _no_ , he was seeing what he was seeing. They appeared to be mirror images of one another, tall, slender brunettes with the same gorgeous dark eyes—though he wasn't close enough to see if the other guy's were hazel—luscious ruby-colored lips, sturdy jaw lines, long necks, lean, muscled torsos. All of it. The guy—and he could only assume he must be Brendan Connelly, duh!—had on jeans, a white tee with a dark blue buttoned shirt over it, and, black high-tops. Fuck! _Black high tops_? Yesterday's stubble showed on his face, that beautiful face Justin had seen a million times in his dreams, and he had a baseball cap mashed down backwards on his head. But, even though he was dressed in a way Brian would never dress, there was no mistaking that he looked _just like_ Brian.   
  
Exactly.  
  
The guy … Brendan came forward 'til he was eye-to-eye with Brian. He glanced at Justin, but in a heartbeat, his gaze returned to Brian. Then a tiny smile appeared, a closed mouthed one that nonetheless seemed to light up his eyes, which, yeah, Justin could now confirm, were hazel. Brendan lowered his gaze to the floor beneath them, but then returned his eyes to Brian's face. "Well …" he said, and Justin reeled at his voice: deep, masculine, but soft, just like Brian's. "I never … umm, I didn't think it would happen like this … this way, but, well, hello."  
  
"Who the fuck are you?" Brian growled, the only clueless person in the room.  
  
Brendan gave a low, throaty chuckle, and looked at Justin as if to share the joke before directing his attention back to Brian. "Well, I'm, uh, either a stalker who's been so obsessed with you that he's had extensive plastic surgery, or … I'm, uhm, Brendan, your twin brother … Brian."  
  
"Oh, shit!" Justin said without realizing he'd spoken the words aloud.  
  
Shit!


	7. Chapter 7

  
Author's notes: Mirror, Part 2:In this crazy, post-bashing world of medications, doctor visits, and strange acronyms like “PTSD,” does Brian have time to get acquainted with a guy who claims to be his _identical twin brother_? Can that really be true? His father was duped, his mother lied, and there are _two_ of him?  


* * *

[ ](http://photobucket.com)

 

~ 7~  
  
_"I-uh, I was adopted by Emma and Sean Connelly two days after I was born," I begin, sounding like the opening line in a Dickens novel._   
  
It doesn't take long to realize I have a couple of stunned people on my hands. Brian looks like someone hit him in the head. His young friend, the blond, is staring at me as if he's afraid I'll disappear in a puff of smoke. I appear to be the only rational one in the bunch—a scary thought. "How about …" I look around, wondering what the chances are that there'll be a vacant spot at this hour. Grounds is small, with a ton of yellow wooden tables and chairs packed into every available corner, but miraculously, a couple of folks are just standing up. "… we sit over here?" I say and point to the booth. The place used to be a diner so a few of the old booths from those days are still around. Grabbing my two coffees, I follow them and slide in opposite Brian. Guess Mr. Lesniewski is going to have to wait.  
  
The young man sits down next to Brian, but his eyes never leave my face. "I'm Justin," he says and holds out a hand.  
  
"Hi." He has a firm handshake and looks me right in the eye, even smiling a bit. He's also, I realize as I take my first good look, fucking gorgeous with those blue eyes, blond hair, and pale skin, especially against Brian's much darker coloring. "How'd you find me?" I ask him since he seems willing to talk.  
  
"Your friend, at the apartment … he told us." Justin glances at Brian who is still staring at me like he can't believe I exist. "Uh, Brian?"  
  
"Mr. Lesniewski?" I say at the same moment and manage a dry laugh. "He's doing his inventory already and I'm not even gone. He's too efficient."  
  
"Brian?" Justin says again and touches Brian's arm.   
  
Brian finally turns and looks at him.  
  
"Could I get some coffee and something to eat?" Justin rubs his right hand with his left as he says this, then a little pink comes into his cheeks "I forgot my wallet and I need to take my meds so—"  
  
Life floods back into Brian's face. "I'll get it. A blueberry muffin? And some OJ?"  
  
Justin nods, pushing back the sleeves of the red hoodie he's wearing. "And coffee?"  
  
"Yeah. Are you okay?" Brian makes an assessment, his gaze fixed on Justin's face. At this point, I seem to have been completely forgotten, but I watch them with fascination, fly-on-the-wall-like, for some reason quite comfortable being a part of their intimate moment. "Does your head hurt?" Brian is quizzing Justin. "Are you—?"  
  
"I'm fine, just hungry."  
  
"Okay." Brian doesn't seem to believe this because, eyebrows drawn, his scrutiny continues for a few more seconds. Then he curls a hand behind Justin's head, draws him close, and kisses him gently on the mouth. "Move," he says softly when they break from that.  
  
"I can get—"  
  
"Let me."  
  
Justin moves from his spot, and Brian slides out. Then without a glance at me, he goes to the counter to place his order.  
  
Justin watches Brian, and then he sits down, gaze instantly back on me. His eyebrows go up as he presses his lips together. "Give him a minute." His voice is very soft. "This is huge and stuff like this is hard for him." He looks back at Brian. "But don't tell him I said that."  
  
This must to be the kid who was hit with the baseball bat. When I read about it I remember wondering why in hell Brian would be at a high school's senior prom, which is a little out of his-our age range. Thank God, it looks like the boy's all right, though. "Okay, so … is that why he looks so pissed?"  
  
Justin grimaces. "That's just how he is."  
  
"Umm." I pluck a toothpick out of the small container on the table. "You've … known him for a long time?"  
  
"Long enough." Justin says, and rubs at his hand again, the thumb of his left hand massaging the space between thumb and finger on his right. "Over a year. We—I got hit with a bat last June—"  
  
"Yeah, I read about that," I say quickly before he can go on. "I've been—occasionally, I google Brian to see, uh, what's going on with him … and that came up the last time I did. That was awful. What happened to the guy who did it?"  
  
"He got community service."  
  
"That's fucked. You're kidding!"  
  
"No." Justin looks over to where Brian is paying the cashier. "I've been living with Brian since I got out of rehab."  
  
So, they're a couple, my thirty-one-year-old brother, and this … teenager? He'd have to be a teenager, right? He sure looks like one. I open my mouth to ask more questions, but right then, Brian comes back with the muffins, juice, and a cinnamon roll that's heavy with white icing. The air is immediately redolent with the smell of cinnamon, which makes my mouth water. He slides back into the booth and sets most of the food in front of Justin. "Coffee's coming. Go ahead and eat."   
  
"Thanks." Justin begins to unwrap the blueberry muffin.  
  
Brian, meanwhile, watches the pick-up area. Okay, we seem to have gone from him staring at me to him refusing to look at me at all. So, I do the staring, wondering if we really look that much alike. I can see that we're similar in appearance, but like many identical twins, I don't look at him and see myself. And, yes, I know this about identical twins because I've been fascinated with them my whole life. Brian's a much better dresser, for one thing, especially in that black leather jacket he's wearing. And he obviously takes good care of himself because _his_ face is mostly unlined. Maybe he hasn't noticed, but the gay men in Grounds have been eyeing him ever since he walked in. There are lots of gay people in the neighborhood, and believe me, with all the tall, dark, and handsome Latino studs, they don't impress easily. I don't know whether to be disturbed that they never reacted that way to me, or proud that it's my brother they're drooling over. Thinking about this, like an idiot, I chuckle.  
  
Brian turns his head and pins me with a death-stare that'd kill a man at fifty paces. "Tell me about the fuckin' rosary … and your business card," he says in a voice no one would ever disobey.   
  
I figured he found me thanks to the business card although I never knew for sure if Joan kept it or threw it away. I take a sip of my double espresso, braced by the acrid taste on my tongue, then stare at Brian with as much resolution as I can muster. "I-uh, I was adopted by Emma and Sean Connelly two days after I was born," I begin, sounding like the opening line in a Dickens novel.  
  
"June 10, 1971," Brian murmurs.  
  
"Right." I take off my baseball cap, run a hand through my hair, and then set the cap aside. "Umm, all they knew then was that an unmarried woman—" I do the quote thing with my fingers, "—'made a mistake' and wanted to give up her baby for adoption. They never met Joan …your mom. It was all done through a lawyer and a nun, who were both kind of working under the radar."  
  
"So, it was illegal?" Justin asks, his mouth full of muffin.  
  
"Yeah, although …" Suddenly, I want to defend my parents. " … they didn't realize that at the time because the nun worked for a legit Catholic adoption agency. She was moonlighting." I clear my throat, surprised again at how comfortable I am around them. Usually, I'm shy with strangers and do a lot of stupid mumbling that makes me sound retarded, but I'm talking to them more like friends. "Anyway, they don't normally split up twins, but in this case, no one except Joan's sister knew there were two babies, uh, I mean after we left the hospital." How long have I imagined myself telling him this stuff? Maybe that's why I'm so at ease—I must've rehearsed this story a thousand times. Fuck, it's wild that I'm sitting here finally telling it. "She was … Joan later told me your father didn't even want _one_ baby, so two … she was afraid that he'd divorce her and she'd end up a real single mother. She felt like she needed to do what she did in order to survive."  
  
Brian is silent.  
  
"So, she … told Jack she had to be on bed rest during her last three months of the pregnancy and that her sister had offered to take care of her and, uh, your sister. He … I guess that was okay with him, so she was able to cover the pregnancy that way, by not being around him or anyone else who knew her, and … that's how she—we all ended up in Poughkeepsie." I decide not to mention how strange I think it is that a man wouldn't want to be with his pregnant wife during that time. There's a lot about the Kinney family that I don't understand.  
  
Twisting his neck left to right, Brian scowls. "So she lied, she fucking lied through her goddamn teeth and fooled everyone." Suddenly, the barista calls his name and he gets up, going for the coffee.  
  
Those aren't the words I'd expect from a grieving son, but after spending a couple of hours with Joan Kinney, I'm not surprised. For years, I'd wondered what my birth mother would be like and had all kinds of outrageous fantasies in my head about … I don't know. A sweet, maternal woman who baked cookies and put my drawings on the refrigerator. I mean, how stupid. I _had_ a mother like that. It wasn't as if I came from some abusive situation and had to fill in the emotional spaces with flowery daydreams. But that's how a lot of adoptees are. No matter how well we have it, we obsess about our birth parents. And Joan Kinney—well, she hadn't fit that fantasy, not at all.   
  
Justin has the orange juice top unscrewed and is drinking, his Adam's apple bobbing as he tilts back his head. I watch as he fishes something out of his pants pocket. A pill bottle. He dumps some pills on the table—blue oval ones, little round white ones—and separates one of each. He sees my gaze. "Pain pill and anticonvulsant," he said like he's talking about the weather. He pops the pills and washes them down with the OJ.  
  
I pick up the toothpick and turn it in my hand. "Are you in pain?" I ask him, concerned that the tension between Brian and me is exacerbating something.  
  
"My head hurts, but it's just because I didn't get much sleep."  
  
Brian is back. He sits back down, and hands one of the cups to Justin. Then he reaches across Justin for the sugar, tears several packets open, and dumps them in his coffee.   
  
We sit in silence for a moment and drink our coffee, staring at everyone except each other. By now, the points of the toothpick are digging into my fingertips so I lay it aside. "Anyway," I say finally, "Mom and Dad—my parents, they … when I was eight, they found out what Joan had done, the twin part of it, although to this day, I don't know _how_ they found out. They were horrified. I didn't know at first what was going on … just that they were upset about something. I already knew I was adopted and we were all cool with that."  
  
Brian raises eyes that are a dark green to gaze at me with unconcealed anger. "Your parents … they're … nice?"  
  
I'm not about to paint them as Ward and June Cleaver, but … "Yeah. Uh, my mom's dead. Dad's retired. But, well, you know how it is. I've had my moments with them, but …"  
  
"Yeah," Brian says, his voice heavily sarcastic, "I _know_ how it is."  
  
Shit, what kind of childhood did he have? Three years ago, when I had the conversation with Joan, she did this wacky number about Brian being gay and burning in the fires of hell—some shit like that. I was taken aback because, well, fuck, it wasn't any of my business who he slept with. I didn't know why she was telling me. And I don't buy into that garbage anyway. Never have. But now I wonder about Jack. Was he religious like that too? I take a deep breath. "Anyway, eventually they told me the truth about what she'd done, and about … you. That's where the rosary came in. It's—"  
  
"The rosary is beautiful," Justin puts in as he breaks off a piece of the cinnamon roll. "It's like a piece of artwork."  
  
"Did you take your meds?" Brian asks him and he sounds impatient, almost indifferent.   
  
"Yeah."  
  
It's funny, but even in such a short time, I'm seeing an interesting dynamic between these two. Brian behaves almost like he's surprised that Justin is even there with him, like he really thinks he should be alone. But, given all his concern about the medication, it seems obvious to me that indifference is just a front. "Uh—"  
  
"Go on." Brian sounds even more impatient. "You were talking about the rosary."  
  
Well, at least he's looking at me. "It's a, umm, Kinney family heirloom, about a hundred years old. With the red swirls in the green, it was designed to look like Connemara marble because, according to your mother …. that's the district in west Ireland where the family came from." I stop. Brian is glaring at me and I realize how this must sound, me telling him things about his family and who the fuck am I? A stranger.   
  
I catch Justin with a smear of icing on his lips, and that makes me smile, which helps me relax. "Anyway, my parents gave it to me when I was eight, just before my first communion. And when they did, they told me about you. They thought I should know that you existed … and that the rosary should've been yours. Your, uh, mother meant to give it to you since it's always been passed down in the family to the first-born male." I take a nervous sip of coffee because Brian looks more and more pissed and you know what they say about the messenger. "I don't know why she changed her mind."  
  
"Were you surprised when your folks told you that you had a twin brother?" Justin asks, licking his fingers so he can pick up his coffee. "I mean, wow, I'd be shocked."  
  
"Oh, sure. On one level, I was stunned to learn that there was someone else who looked like me, that I had a _brother_ although, on another level ..." I give my head a shake, trying to put the way I felt back then into words. "It was the kind of thing where, you may think you know, but you don't know ... you know?" Oh, fuck, I don't think I'm making any sense because even Justin looks baffled. I shift my gaze to Brian and he's glowering like I just stepped on his foot. "Anyway, I … it always seemed unfair that the rosary ended up with me. I used to lie awake at night and … dream up ways I'd get it back to you, but my parents, of course, insisted that I have no contact with you." I decide using the word "obsessed" right now is probably not a good idea. Maybe later, once he's warmed up … hopefully.  
  
Justin stares at me, the cinnamon roll forgotten. "What'd you do?"  
  
"Well, I moved to New York in late 1999." I rub my fingertips across the wood's smooth surface. "Just in time for Y2K in Times Square." And just after Julianne and I broke up. Interesting. I left town after losing Julianne, the "love of my life," and now here I am doing the same thing with Kelly, my other "great love." At least I'm consistent. If someone dumps me, I pack up and leave the city. Shit, even the name makes my heart ache, but, fuck, I made up my mind, didn't I? I want the same thing my parents wanted: kids, a family, a _home_. Why is that so damn wrong?   
  
"Do you always take so much time getting to the point?" Brian snaps.  
  
Shit. "So, after I got settled in, I did some research, and found out that you and your family still lived in Pittsburgh, which … I'd discovered at my last job, in Santa Barbara. Having access to a newspaper's research databases comes in handy sometimes. Anyway, uhm, I knew by then that Joan Sutherland, which was the name on all the adoption papers, was really Joan Kinney." I lick my lips. "So, I called her."  
  
Brian's gives me a bitter smirk and cocks his head to one side. "I suppose she invited you down for the weekend and cooked you a leg of lamb complete with her special mint sauce."  
  
"No, she couldn't do that. Uh, your father was still alive." I lean forward, upset by how angry and hurt he is about Joan. Fuck, what was his life like with her? "We met in a motel about thirty miles outside of Pittsburgh, and she wasn't happy, not at all. She told me I could never contact you while she was alive, that it would kill you to think you'd been fooled this way."  
  
"So, you gave the rosary to your birth mommy and asked her to give it to your big brother, like the nice Catholic boy you are," Brian says, working his face into a sneer.  
  
I struggle to remember Justin's words. _Give him a minute. This is hard for him._ Something like that. Okay, I can do this. I take a deep breath. "I haven't been Catholic for a long time," I tell him, my voice neutral. "I realize this is upsetting to you, so maybe we ought to—"  
  
"Don't you dare fucking patronize me!" he says so loudly Justin jumps. "Fuck it! Fuck it all!" In a flash, he slides out of the booth and turns to walk away.  
  
"Brian! Where're you going?" Justin asks, breathless, his eyes wide.  
  
Brian swivels around to answer the boy. "Taking a walk. Stay here."  
  
"Uh ..." I jump up to stand beside him, keeping my voice low and even.  
  
Brian turns, the look on his face enough to break the heart of a grown man. Yeah, there's anger there, and lots of it, but I see the pain in his eyes too. "If we're not here, we'll be back at my apartment, okay?" I tell him because I know underneath it all, he'll be worried about Justin. That much I got.  
  
Brian stares at me. Imperceptibly, he nods.  
  
Then, without another word, he's gone.


	8. Chapter 8

  
Author's notes: Mirror, Part 2: In this crazy, post-bashing world of medications, doctor visits, and strange acronyms like “PTSD,” does Brian have time to get acquainted with a guy who claims to be his _identical twin brother_? Can that really be true? His father was duped, his mother lied, and there are _two_ of him?  


* * *

[ ](http://photobucket.com)

_"Brian is a good guy, a really good guy. He has a child. I'll bet you didn't know that, did you? A son named Gus. I was there the night he was born."_  
  
~ 8 ~  
  
Brian strode down the street, ignoring the looks he was getting, so angry he was sure he'd punch the first guy who spoke to him. Shit! Why the fuck had he let Cynthia convince him that rushing to New York to catch Brendan Connelly before he left the city was such a great idea? It had to be the stupidest thing he'd ever done. Since when did he listen to her? The last time he checked, she worked for _him_. And what the fuck was he supposed to do or say to this guy now that he'd found him?   
  
"Oh, welcome to the family long-lost brother! Gosh, it's great to see you, but, fuck, do something about the way you dress, would you? You're embarrassing the hell out of me. But, sure, _sure_ come on back to Pittsburgh with us. Let me introduce you to your fuckin' sister who I _know_ will clap her hands in glee when she realizes what a wuss you are. And how about all _my_ friends like Deb and Mikey and the whole gang? I'll bet they'd love a 'Brian' without the word 'asshole' in his name. Need a job, do ya, little bro? Let me help! I'll get out my Rolodex and make a few calls. I'm sure there's _plenty_ of positions in Pittsburgh for a hippie photographer with bad fashion sense. Want to stay with me 'til you find a place to live? No problem! Here take my bed, I insist. Oh, what the hell, take my boyfriend too since he seems to find you so fascinating. Wanna fuck him? Hey, let's make a sandwich with Justin in the middle! He'd like that, wouldn't he? Oh, right, you're _straight_ , aren't you? Well, that's your fuckin' loss."  
  
But, shit, why should he say or do anything? Why should he even fucking care? Because they'd shared space in the same womb during a time neither of them remembered? Like that mattered. Like it had anything at all to do with him or his life or who he was, because it sure as hell didn't. It meant nothing to him just like the whole concept of "family"–the let's-care-for-one-another-and-stand-together-against-the-world bullshit. Nor was he fucking going to go anywhere near the _dream_ and what it'd supposedly been saying to him all these years. Fuck, no. That kind of spooky weirdness was best left to people with too much time on their hands. Not him.   
  
Fuck it! Back before he knew Justin, his life had been simple, efficient, without complications, certainly without anyone that mattered—except for Mikey and Deb, of course. Now this! He worked his neck left to right as he tried to ease the headache that had just begun, wishing like hell he'd brought his coffee. Now he fucking faced a five-hour drive back to the Pitts and Justin looked a little rocky and he had a big meeting tomorrow afternoon with Incon. What brilliant idea would he pull out of the hat this time? Fuck, just forget about the big, gushy Brian-finds-his-brother scene! Brendan could pack up his shit and leave for all he cared. That was fine by him. Send a postcard when you get back to wherever-the-fuck you're going. And have a good life.  
  
He crossed the street when he spotted a small park surrounded by a black, wrought iron fence. Walking into it, he sat down on the first bench he came to and pulled out his cigarettes, surprised by how much the city's noisy clatter had been muted by a few trees and bushes. The real pisser, of course, was that every bit of Brendan's story made perfect sense. Jack would've hit the roof if he'd known he'd soon be saddled with not one, but two brats. There's no way he would've let that happen. Shit, he'd tried to talk Mom into having an abortion when he believed only _one_ baby was on the way. He would've been livid at the thought of twins. And let's face it, Mom was more than capable of organizing a scheme to deliver twins then stash one away before Jack ever knew it'd happened. She had the fuckin' cold and calculating heart of a hit man, so giving up a baby must've been easy for her. He could almost— _almost_ —admire her fuckin' balls in pulling it off.   
  
Brian used a fingernail to chip some of the peeling paint on the bench, chewing on his lower lip as he did. Shit, the most brilliant part of the whole scheme? Jack would've jumped at the chance to live alone for three months while the pregnant wife and whiney two-year-old went away to Auntie Bernice's. And, fuck, _Jack_ had most assuredly been the one making excuses why he couldn't visit them, which Mom realized he'd do. Without knowing a thing about that period, Brian knew for a fact Jack had lived like a king, drinking himself into oblivion every night after a great take-out meal and a little quality time with the television. Or spending the evening with the boys down at Local 467. Either way, he'd been in no hurry to join the missus in Poughkeepsie, and had no doubt used work as an excuse to never set foot across the Pennsylvania/New York state line.  
  
"Fuck," Brian murmured.  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
He looked up. Fuck, it must be meet-your-twin day because the fag who stood before him could be _Emmett's_ twin brother. A medium-sized man, the queen was dressed in a powder blue and white skintight shirt covered in glitter, and a pair of striped pants molded so tightly to his body Brian could see the outline of his cock. Good pecs and lats, but his dick … only average. "Not interested," Brian growled, and lit the match he'd been holding, the sulphur smell filling the air. He took a deep drag on his cigarette.  
  
"Don't flatter yourself, Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Handsome," the queen said in a purring voice, jutting out a hip as he stood there. "Devin's the name—"   
  
"Of course it is."   
  
"—and I'm just looking for a light."  
  
He threw the pack of matches at the man.   
  
Devin sidled a little closer and sat down on the bench next to him, crossing one leg neatly over the other and pointing his toes to reveal blue tennis shoes with fuckin' glitter on them.   
  
_God, give me a break._   
  
The man moved, his polyester-clad ass sliding against the bench, and came up with a pack of smokes from somewhere. He flipped back the bleached blond hair that kept falling in his eyes. "What's got you so pissy?"  
  
"None of your fuckin' business."  
  
Devin leaned against the bench, arms propped on the back so that his splayed fingers showed off his blue fingernail polish. He studied Brian. "You know, honey, if I had your looks and …" He spent another moment staring. "… your cock, I don't think I'd be quite so unhappy. You must get your pick everywhere you go."  
  
"Fuck off," he said, and rubbed one gritty eye, wondering when he'd ever get some sleep.   
  
"And yet, here you sit on a Sunday morning not only looking miserable but like you didn't spent the night up someone's ass or at least getting your dick sucked." The man sighed with great drama, and flipped back his hair again. "What's the world coming to?"  
  
Shit, was _this_ fag the best New York had to offer? Pitiful. Brian leaned his elbows on his knees, and tried to think. Did he want to slug the guy or have a homo heart-to-heart with him or take him somewhere and fuck him or tell him to shut up so he could smoke in peace or-or-or … "I just discovered I have a brother I knew nothing about," he blurted out, and then wanted to smack himself in the head. What the fuck?   
  
"And why would _that_ be the cause for such a sour face, which, by the way, _will_ give you wrinkles."  
  
"Fuck off."  
  
"You're repeating yourself, darling. But even though you didn't ask, let me tell you something." Devin set the pack of matches between them on the bench and pushed them in Brian's direction. Then he stood up, staring down at Brian 'til his gaze threatened to burn a hole into the back of Brian's head.   
  
Finally, Brian sat back to look at the guy, and, yep, there he was, hip jutted out, hand at his waist. "I had a brother, a younger brother named Richard—Ricky is what we called him," he said as soon as he had Brian's attention, his voice deeper, thicker. "Back in Indiana, which is where I'm from. Nice kid. Loved to joke around, but smart—very smart. He wanted to be a D.J. and write novels, but Ricky died when he was fifteen." The man touched his mouth as if to hold back his own words, and his eyes filled with tears. "Stupid motorcycle accident, dumb kids doing stuff they shouldn't do, you know the drill. So, if you expect me to be sympathetic because it's so tragic that you've _found_ a brother you didn't know you had, well Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Handsome, _you_ can fuck off. That's a gift, my fag friend, a real, honest-to-goodness gift. And for you to look at it as some kind of terrible thing, well, that's fucked up—really fucked up."  
  
Brian watched as the man turned and walked away. What the hell? Did a queen whose taste in clothes was so bad he made _Emmett_ look good just lecture him to within an inch of his fucking life?   
  
And had he really just sat there and _taken_ it?  
  
***  
Justin slept for over an hour. He didn't think he would, especially not in a stranger's apartment on a futon on the floor, but the pain pill could have that effect, especially when he'd had so little sleep the night before. Plus, as weird as it sounded, he wasn't actually with a stranger. When he opened his eyes and saw Brendan on the floor across from him, back against the wall, just sitting there reading a book, he felt warm all over—the way he'd feel if Brian had been doing the same thing. Not in a sexual way. Just … well, comforted. Safe. Like he knew already that Brendan was a good guy, just like Brian.  
  
"Want some water?" Brendan set his book aside as Justin struggled to rouse himself. "It's about the only thing left in the refrigerator."  
  
"Sure." Pushing himself into a seated position, he straightened his tee shirt and rubbed his face. He tried to remember anything beyond pulling off his hoodie and, at Brendan's urging, self-consciously laying his head down on the futon's softness. Oh, well, the good news was, he'd gone to sleep and now his head didn't hurt anymore.  
  
Brendan went into the kitchen. He heard the gentle snick as the refrigerator's latch disengaged. Then Brendan came over and, with a soft thunk, dropped down onto his knees, offering the bottle.  
  
"Thanks." He twisted off the cap, and held it to his lips, the chill water waking him up as he took a couple of gulps. "Brian hasn't come back?" he asked as he lowered the bottle although the empty room made it obvious.  
  
"No." Brendan raised his shoulders in a kind of half-shrug. "He just needs time to think."  
  
"You got to admit it's a shock to find out you have a twin brother you never knew anything about."  
  
"Yeah." Brendan repositioned himself once again on the floor, only this time closer. He hugged his knees, chin propped there as he regarded Justin. "It's hard, I'm sure."  
  
Studying the man, Justin again tried to decide whether he was straight or gay, a train of thought he'd started back at the coffee shop when he began comparing Brian to Brendan. That was inevitable, right? Everyone was gonna compare them. So … gay or straight? Okay, there were a number of reputable studies on twins raised apart who'd both ended up being gay, so it wasn't unheard of, not at all, and it sure as hell fit what he knew about the genetic nature of homosexuality. From Brendan, though, he wasn't getting the normal clues he got with guys, gay or straight. Straight guys were just kind of blah—they had a flatness about them that said, "Not interested," without the words ever leaving their mouths. Gay guys, by contrast, just had a _something_ that kind of leapt out when you looked at them, and it didn't have to be obvious either. Yeah, it might be a raised eyebrow or a curled lip, but it just might be … well, a feeling, the famed "gaydar" that was probably just a specialized intuition.   
  
With Brendan, though, it was different. He had a very appealing quality that might just be his personality or might be sexual, a come hither kind of thing that compelled you, but didn't alarm you the way Brian's raw animal magnetism did. Brian took your breath away; Brendan seemed to draw people to him—yeah, that was it—but it was not necessarily about sex. Or maybe sex _was_ involved. Who knew? _Maybe I'm all messed up because he looks so much like Brian,_ Justin thought as he took another swig of water. That could be it. "Uh, so what're your plans?" he asked the man when he realized he'd been silent for too long. "Where are you headed?"  
  
"I wanted to get out of New York, so I … probably, I'll go back home to Spokane."  
  
"Does your dad need you there? Is he old?"  
  
"No. He's retired and having way too much fun." Brendan smiled that soft smile of his, the one Justin already loved. You'd never see a smile like that on Brian. "He's playing the field, romantically, with a couple of hot babes … in between all the time he spends on the golf course."  
  
"And you're okay with that? I mean, your mom—"  
  
"Yeah, I'm okay with it." Brendan touched the edge of the navy blue futon where Justin had slept, rubbing a finger back and forth along the fabric. "No one replaces your mom, of course, but … Dad's lonely. I don't begrudge him that."  
  
He sounded a little wistful. Was Brendan lonely too? Justin wanted to ask, wanted to grill him on his love life, wanted to find out who ended up in _his_ bed, wanted to ask way too much of a man he'd only known for a couple of hours. "Uh, so, you could go anywhere you wanted to go?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Like … Pittsburgh?"  
  
Brendan's gaze came up to meet his own, and Justin saw the gold flecks around the man's irises—exactly like Brian's eyes. "I'm not sure Brian would be too keen on that."  
  
"Well, first of all, it's a free country and you can go anywhere you want." He smiled when he said that, but, fuck, it was true. "And second, I'm not convinced Brian isn't open to the idea."  
  
Brendan nodded. "You think it'll just take time before he comes around?"  
  
"Yeah. And there's no reason that can't happen in Pittsburgh … if you want it to."  
  
"You want us to, uhm, get to know each other, don't you? How come?"  
  
Okay, this part was tricky. How much should he tell the man? It could be disloyal to talk about stuff that Brian might not want Brendan to know. But, fuck, Brendan was his _brother_ —didn't he need to know as much about Brian as possible? Otherwise, how would they ever get to know one another? As he tried to work it all out, Justin ran his fingers through his hair, realizing it must be a mess. Whatever he told Brendan could come back to haunt him if Brian found out. He needed to take it slow. "I just think it'd be great if he had someone … a family member who was on his side," he said, and then wondered if even that had been too much.  
  
Brendan looked grave. "That hasn't been the case?"  
  
Justin shook his head.   
  
"Not even with his sister?"  
  
"She calls him a fag and taught her kids to hate him." Despite himself, he could not keep the bitterness out of his voice. "He's always been there for her, especially when their parents died and she's leaned on him like crazy, but then she just … thinks it's fine to talk about him like that."  
  
Brendan looked disturbed, a darkness creeping into his eyes. "That's horrible."  
  
"She got the homophobia from her mom. Mrs. Kinney always talked to Brian about homosexuality being a sin, and how he'd end up in hell."  
  
"Fuck. I, uh, heard some of that from her too, I'm afraid."  
  
"And his dad used to hit him." Justin spoke all in a rush though he knew he should've stopped after the remark about Claire. "He was a _bastard_ to Brian and it-it always tears me up to think about him being a kid and having to deal with that shit."  
  
Brendan's hand crept forward until it rested on top of his, momentarily. "I didn't know although … I knew it had to be something since he seems, I don't know, unhappy."  
  
Justin could feel the warmth of Brendan's hand even though he'd removed it. "He … it's made him distrustful of people and of love. When I first met him, he told me he was all about fucking and nothing more. He tried to ditch me after the night I spent with him, but I … well, I fought back. I went after him."  
  
"He seems like he could be pretty stubborn about shit like that."  
  
"I'm stubborn too."  
  
Brendan smiled. "I guess you'd have to be, dealing with him."  
  
"Brian is a good guy, a really good guy. He has a child. I'll bet you didn't know that, did you? A son named Gus. I was there the night he was born." Justin took a huge gulp of air. He couldn't seem to stop. "And he takes good care of all his friends too. If any of them need something, he's right there to help although he'll get pissed if they thank him or make a big deal about it. He's taken good care of me too by helping with my physical therapy, taking me to doctor appointments, and letting me live with him, being there when I …" Oh, shit. He bit on his lower lip, hard. What the fuck was he saying? It was the drug's fault, wasn't it? Or just waking up from a nap? But, no, as he stared at Brendan, he realized something. It might be a little bit of both things, but the real reason he'd dumped so much information onto the man about Brian was because Brendan was an _ally_. That was the truth, wasn't it? Somehow he knew he'd finally found a true ally, someone who cared about Brian like he did, and didn't have a fucking agenda or past relationship to push.   
  
"Brian has a _son_?" Brendan said right then, interrupting his thoughts.  
  
"Yeah. He's … a little over a year old, and he looks just like Brian."  
  
Brendan's mouth was opened slightly, his eyebrows raised. "Is this … did he …?"  
  
Justin had to laugh. "No, he didn't do it the natural way if that's what you mean! It was one of those donate-your-sperm deals with Lindsay, one of his friends from college."  
  
"Oh." Brendan's face seem to go from surprise to delight. "Wow, I'm an uncle? I didn't even know it, and I'm an uncle!"   
  
Justin laughed with him. "Yeah, you are! _Uncle Brendan_. Boy, will you be confusing to a one-year-old! I can't wait until you two meet, so we really have to figure out how to get you—" Then another quick thought hit him. "Oh, fuck."  
  
Brendan's eyes widened. "What?"  
  
"I just remembered something. My mom … she's a real estate agent and one of the guys in her office, who does commercial real estate, told her the other day about an apartment for rent, not far from PIFA."  
  
"What's PIFA?"  
  
"Pittsburgh Institute of Fine Art. I'm … it's my freshman year although I'm starting a little late because of, well, everything."  
  
"You're an art major? So was I!"  
  
They grinned at each other.  
  
"She wanted me to know about the place in case I ran across a kid looking for somewhere to live."  
  
"Well, I'm not a college kid, but …"  
  
"Let me call her." Justin poked around in his pants pocket until he found his cell phone. Sunday morning? Mom ought to be home. Clicking the thing on, he dialed and soon he had her on the line. Without going into any details or telling Mom he was in New York, he explained about his "friend" who was looking for a place to stay. She said she'd pass the info on to Mr. Seelig, the landlord. He told her it was kind of urgent, and she promised to call him right away. Even so, the truly amazing part still blew him away. Not even _ten minutes_ later the man called him, and that's when he knew this thing was meant to be. He handed the phone to Brendan and listened as he talked to the man who could become his landlord, watching as he paced back and forth within the small apartment.   
  
Soon, after writing down some information on the top of one of the boxes, the quick scratch of the pen the only sound in the quiet room, he ended the conversation. "Wow. I can't believe it." He crouched back down to hand Justin the phone. "He's going to run a credit check, but says if it comes up clear, the place is mine. And it's furnished except for a bed." Brendan rubbed at his mouth with thumb and forefinger. "I told him I'd be in town sometime tonight, but he's going to leave a key for me with the woman in the next apartment. I think it's because I said I'd give him three months rent in addition to the first and last."  
  
"You're rich, huh?"  
  
Brendan raised his eyes heavenward. "Oh, yeah, rolling in dough. No, I just, my … a friend, uh … someone I know paid me back some money I was owed."  
  
"Do you think you can find work in Pittsburgh?"  
  
Brendan dropped onto his knees, hands resting on his thighs. "Usually, I can. I do a lot of freelance for local papers and working for _The Village Voice_ —that's a good reference. Plus …" He gave an elaborate shudder. "I can do wedding photography or even portrait stuff if I have to."  
  
Justin laughed. "You don't like weddings?"  
  
"It's a little nerve-wracking and those brides …" He whistled. "Your ass is so dead if you don't get the shot they want or they think you made them look ugly. It can be rather unpleasant."  
  
"I can imagine. Women just kind of freak out before they're married, don't they?"  
  
"A lot of them do, yeah. Not pretty."  
  
Justin laughed and opened his mouth to say more when the door to Brendan's apartment opened with a bang and Brian walked in.  
  
Brendan turned, craning his neck.   
  
Justin stared up at Brian and tried not to feel guilty. "Hi."  
  
"Get up," Brian said, his voice flat, his face set in that impassive mask Justin hated. "We're leaving."  
  
Justin stood, and so did Brendan. "Uh, Brian, before we do, I need to tell you something. It's-we—" He swallowed, afraid of how Brian would react. "We talked a little and, uh, Brendan's going to … he's found a place to live in Pittsburgh, near PIFA, and will be staying in the area for a while."  
  
Standing next to him, Brendan held up a hand like he was about to make a pledge. "I won't get in your way, promise." A warm and inviting smile spread slowly across his face. "In fact, you won't even know I'm there unless … unless you want to."  
  
Brian's gaze locked onto his brother's face, his expression set. Justin saw the familiar pain that had been shoved behind that façade, a pain that always made his heart ache because he couldn't touch it, he couldn't do anything to assuage it. He opened his mouth to say something, to somehow make this work though he knew damn well Brian would reject any move he made, but stopped when he caught the look in the man's eyes. Just for a second he saw it, a brief softening, no more than a few heartbeats in length, a look directed at Brendan, a look that contained a rare emotion for Brian Kinney: _hope_. He saw hope in Brian's eyes. Then, like a candle being extinguished, it was gone. "Whatever," Brian said, his voice cold and indifferent. He turned on his heel. Then he was gone, slamming the door behind him.  
  
"Here's my cell phone number." Justin grabbed the pen laying on top of the boxes near the door, knowing he sounded a little breathless, and looked frantically for a piece of paper.  
  
"Use this." Brendan stuck out his hand.  
  
Holding Brendan's hand to keep it steady, he wrote the number quickly and gave the man one last smile. "Call me when you get into town."  
  
Brendan's unmarked hand fell onto his shoulder, fingers squeezing as he looked into Justin's eyes. "Thank you. I will. Now go on before you lose him."  
  
"Bye!" Justin grabbed his hoodie, and ran toward the door, hoping like hell he'd make it to the elevator before the doors closed.


	9. Chapter 9

  
Author's notes: Mirror, Part 2: In this crazy, post-bashing world of medications, doctor visits, and strange acronyms like “PTSD,” does Brian have time to get acquainted with a guy who claims to be his _identical twin brother_? Can that really be true? His father was duped, his mother lied, and there are _two_ of him?  


* * *

[ ](http://photobucket.com)

~ 9 ~  
  
_Everything was fucked up on so many fronts._   
"So, she's taking you out, but you don't know where?" Sitting on the bed's edge, Brian pulled on his shoes and tried not to sound like a father questioning his kid. Fuck, why did he care where Justin went?  
  
"Yeah." Justin mumbled as he rustled around inside a drawer. "She was so mysterious, which isn't like Daph. I hope she's not pregnant or something." He straightened out, tee shirt in hand. "At least she says she'll feed me although I'm wondering if I'll want to eat."  
  
"You always want to eat." Brian watched as Justin pulled the tee shirt over his head, enjoying, as always, the boy's slender beauty. There'd been a delicious, early morning blowjob, and a much longer shower fuck to sustain him, but even so, he'd already made plans for the evening to come—after his workout, lunch with the boys, and a few hours worth of work he had to do. "When do you think you'll be back?" he asked Justin, trying to decide if they'd have time for dinner and a few drinks before they hit Babylon and began their search for likely prospects. They'd been doing a lot of that lately. Well, okay, _he'd_ been doing it. Thanks to the narcotics he took, Justin still wasn't drinking although he always managed to slip in a beer or two. He stayed away from the recreational drugs though, because he knew Brian would kill him if he tried mixing E or anything else with the pain meds. But the sex … Justin sure as hell didn't mind the tricking, and instantly became an enthusiastic part of any sexual grouping Brian put together.  
  
"By dinnertime, probably," the boy said in answer to his question.   
  
Justin's eyes did not meet his and right away, the thought jumped into Brian's head: _him_. He was going to see _him_. Fuck. Again? He gripped the bed's edge, fingers digging into the velvety duvet. "So, what is it now? My baby brother needs help putting up pretty ruffled curtains?" he said, making no effort to keep the contempt out of his voice.  
  
"Brian, you're exaggerating. I've only been over to his place a few—maybe five times in the last three weeks. That's not—"  
  
"No, that's fine—I know what _pals_ you and he have become." Brian buttoned his shirt, feeling the sudden rush of adrenaline that hit him. "God knows how he would've managed to get himself set up in that _elegant_ apartment of his if it hadn't been for you."  
  
"How would you know _anything_ about where he lives or what kind of apartment he lives in?" Justin shot back, the color rising in his face. "He's been here almost three weeks and you haven't called him even once. And forget the idea of actually visiting him, of looking at him face-to-face. You—"  
  
"I'm _what_?" He stood up so he could tower over the boy. Fuck, why were they having this conversation again? It never went anywhere and always ended badly. "Not the Welcome Wagon lady bustling over to little Brennie's house the minute he gets into town?"   
  
"You're his _brother_ , for fuck sake!" Justin slapped both hands against his sides, a gesture that displayed his own pent-up frustration at the three-week "discussion" they'd been having. "I mean, no one is asking you to become best buddies with the guy, but you'd think you—"  
  
Brian grabbed his wallet and stuck it in his back pocket. "Stay out of it."  
  
"How can I stay out of it when—"  
  
"—Brendan's your new best friend?" Brian could hear the sneer in his voice, but seemed powerless to prevent it. "I _know_ how much you enjoy spending time with your newfound artsy pal so—"  
  
In the blink of an eye, Justin's expression went from angry to crestfallen. "Brian, that's not true, I just feel a sense of … well, of responsibility for him. He doesn't know anyone in Pittsburgh and I'm the one who suggested he move here and you're not—"  
  
"I have to go." He grabbed his jacket out of the closet and went down the steps, heading for the door.   
  
"Don't be that way." Justin was right behind him, bare feet padding against the floor as he strove to keep up. "Every time anything comes up about your brother you go crazy and get angry at me. I don't understand why. I'm not fucking him, Brian. He's straight, remember? He's just a nice guy and I—"  
  
The front door buzzer sounded.  
  
Brian threw a smirk Justin's way. "The little woman arrives." He draped a hand over the intercom, fingers grazing the brickwork, and punched the button. "Hello, darling," he said, his voice deep and intimate.  
  
Daphne giggled on cue. "Hi, Brian."  
  
"Come on up." He hit the button then rolled back the loft door, ignoring Justin as he listened to Daphne's quick skips as she bounced up the stairs.   
Daphne had on a pair of black pants and, peeking from beneath her jacket, a sweater that was a riot of blues, greens, and purples. Her curly hair was in two pigtails that fell across her shoulders. Clutching the strap of the multi-colored tote she carried, she stopped when she saw Brian standing there. "Hi."  
  
"Hi."  
  
She cocked her head to one side and tried to look into the loft. "Did you murder Justin?"  
  
"Not yet, but the thought has occurred to me." He moved aside so she could enter, and watched as she went to where Justin stood in the middle of the floor, looking rather unfinished in his tee shirt, and jeans. "Hi."  
  
"Hey." They hugged, but when Daphne turned around to stare at Brian, he saw the look on her face. "So, you two are … having a discussion and I walked in on it, right?"  
  
"Lucky you. I'm leaving." Brian grabbed his keys off the counter, avoiding Justin's gaze.  
  
"No, wait," Daphne said, and a big smile appeared as she waved both hands like she was conducting an orchestra. She reached for Brian so he moved a little closer. Fuck, Justin had it right. She _was_ pregnant, although usually such crazy happiness was reserved for—"  
  
"I'm engaged." She waved her left hand, flapping so fast Brian couldn't make out a damn thing. "He asked me on Thursday!"  
  
Justin's mouth came open and he became very still.  
  
"Hold your hand fuckin' still so I can see it." Brian spoke when Justin's mute moment continued. What the fuck? When had _he_ become the one jumping up and down in glee because someone was getting married? "Oval-shaped, huh? Very nice." The ring was not some piece of junk only a college kid could afford. "Has to be at least a carat."  
  
"It is." Daphne was showing so many teeth the light bouncing off them might blind him. "Well?" She focused this over-the-top excitement on Justin who finally realized a response was in order.  
  
"Wow, that's great—that's really great!" He obligingly hugged her, but Brian could tell his enthusiasm was subdued. "So, as soon as you and David graduate you'll—"  
  
"No! That's what's so cool. We're doing it in the spring—May 31st, which is David's grandmother's eightieth birthday." She bent her wrist downward at a sharp angle. "The veddy veddy rich Mrs. Hall is going to host the affair in the garden behind her estate."  
  
Justin's eyes met Brian's. "Uh, I don't know if I ever mentioned him to you. David comes from a wealthy family. He's studying—what is it, Daph?—management communication at Carnegie-Mellon. Sophomore year. He, uh, went to St. James."  
  
"That's right." Daphne nodded so fast she might get whiplash. "One day he'll take over the family business, which has to do with investment banking—something like that. We were just going to live together, but his parents said his grandma would have a heart attack if we did so … well, he proposed! Once we graduate, we want to travel for a few years, and see the world."  
  
Brian pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm not sure the world is ready for you, Daphne."  
  
She stuck out her tongue at him before turning back to Justin. "So, what I want to do … well, two things." Daphne straightened out, hands clasped together in front of her. "Don't freak, okay? But I want … Justin, I want you to be my man of honor."  
  
"Your _what_?" Justin dipped his head a little to look at her like she might've lost her mind. "'Man of honor'? I've never heard—"  
  
"It like maid of honor or matron of honor only it's for a guy." Daphne bounced on her toes, pigtails flying. "You're my best friend! I want _you_ in that position! I mean, you don't know David that well so you can't be his best man, and I don't want you just being a groomsman. Say you'll do it! Please? It'll be so much fun!"  
  
"Fun for who?" Justin's face was wreathed in astonishment, the pink color rising in his cheeks as the blue in his eyes seemed to flash. "You want me prancing around in one of those violet-colored dresses with the stupid bows in the back—"  
  
"No, silly! You'd wear a tux! Lots of brides have men of honor nowadays! Sometimes a bride has a brother she's close to or, like in my case, a good friend." Suddenly, she whirled in Brian's direction. "You can see that, can't you Brian? It's very modern."  
  
Brian tried very hard not to laugh. "I kind of like the idea of the dress. Justin would look _so_ sweet in one of those sherbet-colored dresses, maybe in a nice pink taffeta …"  
  
"Shut up!" Justin gave him a pointed glare. "Daph, I can't believe you want me to—"  
  
"I know you don't know David very well, but we're going to fix that today." She gave him a cheery grin. "That's the other thing. We're having lunch with him at the Esquire."  
  
Brian's eyebrow went up. The Esquire? Probably the most elegant restaurant in all of snooty Pittsburgh.  
  
"We are?" Justin looked surprised, and a little, well … dismayed?  
  
"Yes! You, David, and me! It'll be fun."  
  
Given the expression on Justin's face, Brian wondered about the "fun" part. He found the whole thing very amusing, a definite antidote to his crappy mood, and struggled not to laugh aloud. "Does he get to help you look for a bridal gown, Daphne? Because if you're going to depend on Justin's fashion sense, you might want to save yourself the trouble and just buy your dress off the rack at Wal-Mart."  
  
"You're _so_ incredibly funny!" Justin glared again, but a smile twitched on his lips. "What would I have to do?" he asked Daphne, raking fingers through his hair. "I don't know anything about that stuff."  
  
She patted his arm. "I'll explain it all to you, but basically you'd be supporting me, which is what you do anyway. I won't expect you to do anything that makes you uncomfortable and, besides, I'll have some bridesmaids too, so they can help." She batted her eyelashes at him. "You can help me check out the bakeries and caterers—that part I know you'll like."  
  
"Well … I guess that doesn't sound too bad," Justin said as he studied her. "I can do that."  
  
The expression "famous last words" came to Brian, but wisely, he kept his mouth shut. The boy needed to make his own decision, and shouting, "Run!" at the top of his lungs would not be useful. He took a step toward Daphne and kissed her on the cheek, the floral scent of her perfume rising up to meet him as he did. "Congratulations." He glanced at Justin, letting his eyes roam up and down. "Besides, now you can get rid of your stalker."  
  
Daphne giggled. "You're the only one he stalks, Brian."  
  
Brian sighed elaborately. "Yeah. Lucky me." He gave Justin just the hint of a smile. "Later?"  
  
Justin nodded. "Around 5:00."  
  
Without a backward glance, Brian stode out of the loft.  
  
***  
After he walked from the parking lot where Daph dropped him off, Justin set his portfolio down in front of Brendan's place, peering through the screen door as he tried to see inside. Brendan lived as if crime weren't a problem anywhere and he didn't have to worry about anything ever being stolen. His door was always open … or at least it had been open every time he'd been here. He couldn't see anyone inside, though, so he decided he better knock.  
  
"Hey."  
  
Hand up, he turned and saw Brendan walking toward him from across the courtyard that separated one of the garden type apartment buildings from the one Brendan lived in. "Oh, there you are."  
  
Brendan had on his usual outfit: jeans and a blue and green shirt. He was clean-shaven and that always made Justin gulp because he looked so much like Brian. "Yeah. Just giving Mrs. Saunders the milk and bread I got for her at the store." Brendan's eyes lighted on the portfolio case. "You brought your art? That's great! I can't wait to see it."  
  
"Most of it is old." Despite himself, Justin blushed, even though Brendan had specifically expressed a desire to see his stuff any number of times. "I haven't done much since I started classes, except for some graphic arts stuff."  
  
Brendan held the door open so he could lug the case inside. "I'm glad to hear the college has been flexible about your class schedule because of what happened." He waited while Justin entered. "And the graphic stuff? It's from that computer Brian got you?"  
  
"Yeah." Brendan's place was small, just like the last one had been, but also warm and cozy especially on a day like today when the chill November winds seemed to portend snow. Justin walked into a small living room painted a creamy off-white, a room furnished with a couch covered in white cotton, one comfy green chair, a beat up, old coffee table, and an entertainment center where Brendan's television had been placed. Brendan's pictures—framed and unframed—were everywhere. Justin had been surprised the first time he saw them to find minimalist, black-and-white pictures of stark houses and apartment buildings a la Lewis Baltz sharing space with more naturalistic photos that took their inspiration from Ansel Adams. And that didn't even include the wall that had the commercial stuff on it: head shots, fashion shoots, portraits. Justin sighed. One of the places he and Brendan definitely connected was with the art.  
  
"How about some coffee?" Brendan said as he closed the door. "Wow, it's really getting cold outside." He went toward the little kitchen, rubbing his hands together. "Why don't you put the portfolio on the coffee table?"  
  
"Okay." Now if he could just get himself out of this mood he'd been in all afternoon. The problem was that, even though Daph and he had spent several hours at the mall, just the two of them, his thoughts were still stuck on the lunch he'd had with Daph and her fiancé, good ole David Richie-Rich. Fuck, he didn't like the guy! He kept trying, but so far, he just did _not_ like him, at all. And he wasn't even sure why. "Thanks," he added when he realized Brendan was being a good host and listened as the man rattled around in the kitchen. He moved a few magazines and laid the portfolio down, standing there, arms crossed as he stared at it.   
  
Next Wednesday he was supposed to have dinner at Dad's and _he_ wanted to see the portfolio too. They'd been e-mailing and things were … well, not exactly warm, but maybe a little less hostile. Now the dinner date and his work. The problem was, how could he sneak the portfolio out of the loft? He didn't normally take it to class although, well, maybe he could come up with something that wouldn't arouse Brian's suspicions. Of course, even if Brian did wonder what was going on, he'd think it had to do with Brendan, and not connect it to Dad. Fuck, Brian would be so angry if he knew the contact he'd had with his father. Everything was fucked up on so many fronts. He hated lying to Brian about Dad. He hated that Brian would have nothing to do with his brother. He hated Daphne marrying this stuck up prick who seemed altogether too straight and too humorless to be gifted with someone as fabulous as Daph. Shit.  
  
"Did Brian give you a hard time about coming over here?"  
  
Surprised, he realized that Brendan stood across from him. "Uh, no, not really," he said, but didn't meet the man's eyes. "But I'm just … I found out my best friend is getting married in the spring."  
  
Brendan smiled gently. "A great tragedy."  
  
Justin answered the smile. "I don't particularly like the guy."  
  
"Ah." Brendan rubbed at his mouth. "I'm sure she wouldn't agree with your assessment."  
  
"Exactly." Justin rolled his eyes. "And now she wants me to be her man of honor."  
  
Brendan laughed, crouching down so he could untie the portfolio's straps. "That's better than excluding you from the wedding, isn't it? At least she's saying she cares."  
  
"True." When Brendan hesitated, Justin sat down on the couch and opened the portfolio. He watched as the man carefully worked his way through a group of the computer-generated pictures.  
  
"Good, strong lines," he murmured as he did, his finger tracing one of them. "Great use of light. And I love your color choices." He tapped one of the pictures that looked like a vivid sea of green grass swaying to a fierce wind. "Very Georgia O'Keeffe."  
  
Wow. Okay, maybe he didn't totally suck. "Thanks."  
  
"You like using the computer?"  
  
"It's different than using a pencil or a brush so, yeah, it's taken some getting used to, but now I like it."  
  
Brendan retrieved the coffee a few minutes later and, kneeling on the floor opposite Justin, continued to go unhurriedly through the portfolio. He stopped at one of the last pencil drawings Justin had done, a frustrating piece that'd made his hand hurt every time he worked on it. Brendan stared at it for a long moment, sipping on his coffee as he did. "Tell me about this one."   
  
Justin stared at the drawing. It was something he wanted to paint, but that wouldn't happen any time soon, at least until he had better control of his hand. In the picture, someone was hidden behind a fogged up glass, like a window on a rainy day, or a glass-enclosed shower. His face was obscured although his mouth had been well enough defined that you could make out his frown. His hands were on the glass, fingers splayed as if he was trying to get out. The man's eyes were hidden, but he'd drawn just a hint of blond hair and knew, although he really hadn't thought about it, that he was looking at himself. "It's about, uh, being frustrated." He licked his lower lip, gaze not on Brendan. "Being trapped. Wanting to get out, but not knowing how."  
  
"It's very powerful," Brendan said after a moment's silence. "But this is just the preliminary sketch."  
  
He looked at the man, surprised. "Yeah. I can't … my control isn't that good yet."  
  
"That must be frustrating."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"What does your advisor tell you?"  
  
Justin sighed, reaching for his own coffee and taking a drink before he answered, the hazelnut flavoring resting sweetly on his tongue. "He says to wait a year, that my hand will be strong enough by then."  
  
Brendan seated himself more comfortably on the floor, long legs folded together as he looked back at Justin's art. "How about doing something abstract? Ever try that?"  
  
"No. I like—my favorite artists are all remodernists so I haven't really focused much energy there."  
  
"Well, it's something to consider. You could do a little Jackson Pollack for a while, just until the hand is stronger." He indicated the drawing. "This kind of emotion could be done using those techniques."  
  
"I'll have to think about it, but that's not a bad idea. I guess I should ask my advisor. They're letting me take things out of order so maybe I could do a class like that in my freshman year." Justin rubbed his right hand with his left until he realized what he was doing. Then he stopped. "Thanks." They both stared at the drawing. "Uh, to change the subject, did you ever … can I ask you a question?"  
  
"Sure."  
  
"Did you ever have a relationship where you and your lover didn't agree on the kind of lifestyle you'd lead?"  
  
Brendan looked grave. "You mean, a serious relationship, like living together?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Brendan nodded immediately. "I did."  
  
Justin knew he couldn't go into details about "the game." Hell, no. Brendan knew Brian was a bit of a playboy and he'd found that out from someone who happened to know Brian's reputation though not, apparently, what he looked like. He wasn't about to tell the man about the threesomes and foursomes they'd been involved in ever since their return from New York. Yeah, he knew Brian was engaged in pain management and he had good reason for being hurt and unhappy at what his mother had done. But somehow, that didn't help when he found himself spending less and less time with Brian, and more time with complete strangers. That's not what he signed up for, and it'd never been what he wanted. "What did you do?" he asked now, hoping Brendan wouldn't dig for details.  
  
Brendan arose and walked to the entertainment center where a pack of cigarettes lay, bringing them back with him. Lowering himself onto the couch, he offered one to Justin, who declined, then lit up. "Uh, well … I've, I think I've mentioned Kelly?"  
  
Justin didn't know much because Brendan wasn't talking, but it seemed apparent that Kelly had broken the man's heart. Justin had looked for a picture among the many on the living room walls and propped up on one of the built-in shelves, but hadn't found any he thought might be this mysterious woman. A blonde. That's all he knew about her. "Yeah, you've mentioned her."  
  
Brendan closed Justin's portfolio. He sat, arms propped on his knees, staring at the floor. "I—uh, have always wanted kids, a family, the whole nine yards."  
  
"And she didn't?"  
  
Brendan took a hit on the cigarette. "Very uh, career-oriented and … interested in the, uhm, scene."  
  
Justin sat up a little straighter. "Into nightlife, and clubbing?"  
  
"Definitely."  
  
"Fuck." Brendan looked over at him and Justin could see the pain in his eyes. He wanted to ask more, but, shit, he better not. Every time anything came up about Kelly, Brendan looked like he wanted to slit his wrists. "I kind of have the same problem."  
  
"Brian is into clubbing? That guy I met at the camera store … he implied that about him. I think he used the phrase 'man about town' which I thought was funny."  
  
Tonight, they'd be hitting Babylon and looking for another hot guy or two to fuck, and "funny"? Well, he wasn't sure that was the right word. Okay, he could get into those kinds of sexual scenes and without a doubt he could get off on them, but did that mean he enjoyed it? Yes and no. It might be something to do once in awhile, but on a regular basis it didn't appeal to him. Yet, what could he do about it? The alternative was that Brian would do it alone and even though he knew it sounded pathetic, he wanted to please Brian and to be with him too. And, yeah, he wanted him to be happy. "Brian likes to party, that's true," he said at last. "And sometimes he does it more than I want to."  
  
"That's an interesting role reversal." Brendan crushed out his cigarette in the ashtray. "Shouldn't you be the one who wants to party all night?"  
  
"Not as much as Brian does."  
  
"Oh." They sat there, then, and didn't say anything for a few minutes while the shadows began to lengthen across the room as the sun prepared to go down. Justin wondered if things could get any more depressing. Of course, they could and he knew that, but right now, that wasn't much motivation. Somehow, all this shit would be worked out because it always was. If he could just get Brian to _talk_ to Brendan, to see what a good guy he was, maybe he'd stop the tricking … or at least slow it down because he wouldn't need so much pain management anymore. But, shit, he knew what Brian was like when he moved in with him. Why was this all such a huge shock? Brian was Brian and always would be. Did he really think that a bat to the head or a few minutes of romance at a high school prom would permanently change that? Because if he did, he was delusional.  
  
"Hey, I've got an idea," Brendan said just then and sprang off the couch, going into his bedroom. He emerged a moment later with a camera in hand. "Come on. I'm going to take your picture."  
  
"Me? Now?" He touched his hair, certain it must be a mess. "Why would you—?"  
  
"Come on! No false modesty! You're very photogenic and I'm sure you know that." Brendan threw open the door. "Besides, maybe I can get a fascinating shot that Brian won't be able to resist. It'll be my ticket to him."  
  
Justin followed him out into the courtyard to a patch of the remaining sunlight near a small tree. He stood there, his shoulders and neck stiff, his hands tightening though he forced himself not to make fists, while Brendan fiddled with the camera. "I've always hated getting my picture taken," he confessed as Brendan worked.  
  
"The camera loves you, baby," Brendan replied, then lowered the camera to grin at him. "Sorry. Do me a favor, huh? Shake yourself all over. No, more. Get your arms out, really shake them. Pretend you're at one of Brian's clubs."  
  
Justin felt silly, but he moved his arms and legs then shrugged his shoulders and bent his knees, knowing he must look like a total dork. He started to smile.  
  
"Good, good," Brendan said and he heard the sound of the shutter as Brendan snapped pictures. "Aw, look at the way the sun glints on that hair! What a man of honor you're going to be!"  
  
Justin laughed and then stuck out his tongue, knowing he'd probably regret it. "Yeah, some man of honor." He made a few more crazy faces.  
  
"I like, I like," Brendan murmured and kept snapping pictures.  
  
Then Justin stopped. He looked into the camera, his arms relaxed, his face—well, fuck, he wasn't sure what was going on with his face. But Brendan's camera answered that look immediately, clicking over and over again, so maybe it was something good.  
  
"Turn your head a little to the right—no, chin down—good, hold it, hold it. Oh, yeah—God, no wonder Brian gets so jealous. Look at you! Just look at you!"  
  
Justin had to grin at the comment. Brian jealous? Was that even a possibility? "Yeah," he said, as he struck another pose, deciding to go with the idea and feeling so much better than he'd felt a few moments earlier, "just look at me!


	10. Chapter 10

  
Author's notes: Mirror, Part 2: In this crazy, post-bashing world of medications, doctor visits, and strange acronyms like “PTSD,” does Brian have time to get acquainted with a guy who claims to be his _identical twin brother_? Can that really be true? His father was duped, his mother lied, and there are _two_ of him?  


* * *

[ ](http://photobucket.com)

~ 10 ~  
  
_Sometimes it seemed like he was blind and deaf to every fucking thing in his life._  
  
Brian stopped at the diner that night and had the Pink Plate Special more out of habit than real appetite. Chicken Cacciatore over spaghetti with a limp salad drowning in vinaigrette. Fuck, the fat alone was enough to kill him, but he sat there and ate another forkful of chicken because despite what he might think about being superhuman, he did have to eat to sustain himself … at least, sometimes.   
  
As he chewed, the garlic and oregano taste bitter on his tongue, he tried to keep his mind blank, to just do what he had to do and get the hell out of here. He didn't want to go over his day, to worry about the new Zitel campaign or the way Marty seemed to spend so much time in mysterious meetings. And he sure as fuck didn't want to speculate on the dream. He wiped his mouth a little too hard, the paper napkin grating across his lips. Surprise, surprise, there was _still_ a dream. Mr. Mirror-face himself lived about five miles from here, and if anyone had been keeping track they might've assumed the big, bad dream that had haunted him for so many years had finally come to an end. Brian speared another piece of chicken, staring at it as red sauce dripped back onto the plate. But, no, it seemed his psyche didn't work that way.  
  
The dream had changed, that's all. Oh, the falling was still there, the long, dark corridor, the kid running onto the bridge. And when the kid turned, yeah, he had the mirror face that became Brendan's face as he held out the rosary. The weird thing, though, was that he _took_ the rosary in this new version. And when he did … the rosary turned into roses, deep red roses that freaked him out so much he grabbed them to fling them away, their sharp thorns piercing his hand in an instant of bright pain. When that happened, he dropped them, and always, always, always stared at the blood that flowed from the many wounds in his hand—horrified, paralyzed, his palm pulsating with pain as the dream world slipped into a crazy spin that always jerked him out of his sleep.  
  
_Fuck._  
  
Right then, just when he needed it, the diner's door opened and in came Michael, the perfect distraction. Brian sighed. Talking with Mikey right now was not high on his list of fun things to do, but he'd take what he could get if it meant escaping his own dark thoughts.  
  
"Hey." With a smile, Mikey slid into the seat across from him, hands tapping out a rhythm on the Formica surface. "I'm surprised to see you here. Thought you'd be eating dinner with the Boy Wonder the way you usually do."  
  
"I do what I want, Mikey, you know that." He set down his fork and rubbed his forehead, wondering why he hadn't simply gone home. There must be food there, right? Thanks to Justin's presence in the loft, that had changed considerably. But, shit, he already knew the answer to why he was here, and, yes, it had to do with Justin. The kid said he had an evening class to attend, an upper level one taught by one of his professors, a class he wanted to sit in on because it was about Mondrian, an abstract painter he admired. It didn't take a genius to fill in the blanks, did it? Maybe he was at some fuckin' lecture and maybe he wasn't. Maybe he was soaking up the history of a French painter who liked to paint big, black grid lines, and maybe he was at Brendan's having an intense discussion about Alfred Eisenstaedt over hot chocolate and cookies. It was a toss up.  
  
"You're in a mood." Michael looked up and smiled as Debbie approached. "Hi, Ma."  
  
"Sweetheart." Deb had on one of her porn tee shirts, though he couldn't read anything except the word "lube." She clanked when she walked thanks to all the buttons on her vest. Patting Michael's cheek, she raised an eyebrow at Brian. "Don't let his shitty attitude rub off on you."  
  
"Yeah, I noticed. Can I get a bowl of chili? And a Coke? Please?"  
  
Debbie gave him a mother's best smile at the polite request and turned away.  
  
"So, are you free for the night?" Michael plucked a napkin from the holder and folded it into multiple squares, smiling hopefully at him. "Want to go to Woody's for a few drinks? And maybe Babylon?"   
  
"What do you mean, am I free for the night? What the hell else would I be?" He picked up his fork, looked at his dinner, and put the fork back down, an unreasonable sense of anger washing over him at Mikey's implication. "I'm not in a fuckin' relationship, Michael, if that's what you mean."  
  
"Aren't you?" Michael scrunched up his face so much he looked like a Pekinese. "Gee, you could've fooled me, Brian. Usually whenever I see you or talk to you, you're on your way to do something for Justin or you've just _done_ something for him—doctor appointments, picking up prescriptions, physical therapy. If that doesn't sound like someone who's in a relationship I don't know—"  
  
"Justin is in school now and pretty much operating on his own. You need to keep up with the times. I haven't been doing most of that shit for a while." Okay, that wasn't technically true, but close enough. He still kept up with the doctor appointments and tracked the physical therapy. But Justin picked up his own meds and the nightmares, the flashback episodes, all that shit? Much rarer now than they'd been a few weeks ago. He sure as shit wished he could say the same. "And there is _no_ relationship."  
  
"Then why's he still living at the loft?"  
  
Brian stared at him, teeth tightly clenched.  
  
"Come on, Brian, it's a legitimate question. He came to live with you because Jennifer asked you to help out, right? So you did and now it's, what? A couple of months later? Yet, he's still there."  
  
"Do you have a problem with that?"  
  
"I just think—" Michael ran a hand over his face, a huge frown materializing. "It's just frustrating, Brian. You're not your old self and haven't been since … well, since it all happened last summer. I mean, sure, I understand how you felt like you needed to help the kid and you did a good thing, I'm not questioning that. I even think you deserved that award the GLC gave you. But now … well, it's almost winter and here you are, still babysitting. Don't you think maybe it's time Justin went back to his mother?"  
  
Michael's hostility toward Justin wasn't a big, fat, fucking surprise. It'd been on display since the night he met the boy. But right here, right now? It wasn't what he needed. He drew a long, deep breath, striving for calm. "So, you'd like me to go home, pack his shit, and drive him over to Jennifer's, just like that?"  
  
"No." Michael shook his head, eyebrows up, face wreathed in disgust. "You can explain it to him first . But shit, Brian, you have your own life to live. You're not the kid's guardian or-or rich uncle or something! You fuck him and the two of you had this horrible experience together. That's about it."  
  
"So, given that, it's time I kicked him out?"  
  
"I'm not suggesting you kick him out. I'm suggesting you think about _your_ life, _your_ future for a change. Look." Michael leaned forward on his folded arms, his voice dropping, but his tone very firm. "You've changed. Don't you see that? You're Brian Kinney! You're supposed to be out fucking every hot guy in Pittsburgh not taking some sick kid to his pediatrician! Half the time when you're out somewhere with one of us you're checking your watch since you have to get back to Justin because you're afraid he'll get freaky. Who appointed you to that task and when the fuck are you gonna stop it?"  
  
"I didn't know you were keeping track of when I'm at Babylon and how many people I fuck," he said, and forced himself to eat another bite of chicken just so he'd look unaffected by Mikey's bullshit. Why couldn't he just shut the fuck up?  
  
"Yeah, I knew you'd make fun of me. Go ahead, you always do." Michael put on his most mournful expression. "That's what I get for trying to be a good friend."  
  
"And good friends advise each other to get rid of injured teenagers whenever possible?" he said before the last word left Mikey's mouth. "You're quite the humanitarian."  
  
"Fuck, you make me sound heartless."  
  
"Who's heartless?" Debbie said as she set a bowl of chili down in front of her son. "Not you, Michael, that's for sure!" She cracked her gum, placed the Coke next to the chili, and turned to leave.  
  
"Don't you think—Ma, don't you think maybe it's time for Justin to go home?"  
  
Debbie looked around as if she expected to see the boy standing somewhere in the diner. "Go home where? He _is_ home, isn't he?"  
  
Brian rubbed an eye, feeling the grittiness there. "He's at PIFA."  
  
"I meant home like where he really lives." Michael opened a pack of crackers and crumbled them over the chili. "With his mom."  
  
Debbie stared at him, her expression serious. "That was never really Justin's home, now was it, Michael? At least, not since we came to know him, when he went through all that trouble with his father. Poor Sunshine." She shook her head, her demeanor changing once more. "But, shit, if he was going to leave Brian's place, he'd be more likely to come back to Vic and me because I doubt his mom would let him bring tricks back to her townhouse!" With a wicked chuckle, Deb turned away.  
  
"And that's another thing," Mikey said immediately, stirring the chili as he gave Brian a concerned look. "You can't really trick at the loft anymore, can you? You used to have such a great time bringing back a hot guy or two and spending a few hours fucking the shit out of them. Now you can only do that if Justin's involved and not every guy wants to mess with some fuckin' teenager."  
  
As the anger pushed at him from all sides, Brian shoved the plate of food aside. "Well, fuck me!" he said and tilted his head to give Mikey a bitter smirk. "My life's a mess and I didn't even know it." He threw a ten down on the table and slid out of the booth.  
  
"Where're you going? Don't get all mad just because I'm thinking about you and trying to help when—"  
  
"Leave it alone, Mikey," he said, the command clipped and sharp.  
  
"Well, shit, Brian, I'm sorry. Let me just eat this and I'll buy you a drink at Woody's."  
  
Brian shook his head, not about to spring his coiled anger where it didn't belong. There was a hell of a lot of shit going on, and Michael had no clue. Fuck, he wondered if _he_ had a clue. Sometimes it seemed like he was blind and deaf to every fucking thing in his life. "Not tonight."  
  
"But I could—"  
  
"Fuck it, Mikey! Enough is enough!" He turned on his heel. "Good night."   
  
***  
  
It was after ten before Dad dropped Justin off a few blocks from the loft, a definite precautionary measure. That's all he'd need, right? Brian seeing him in the car with the jerk who'd beat him up, wrecked his Jeep, and called him a child molester. That'd piss him off for sure. As Justin walked the last block to the loft, he tried not to think about the dinner he'd just come from. Dad's girlfriend, Lori, fixed the pot roast they'd eaten, but she'd been missing from the scene—too soon, he guessed, for the cute little twenty-something to be introduced to the son almost her age. Shit. Okay, he couldn't think about this because if he did it'd show on his face when he got back to the loft and Brian would know something was up. Mondrian. He had to think about Professor Stanley's lecture, the one he'd read online yesterday.  
  
In the end, he hadn't taken his portfolio because, well, he just felt weird showing it to Dad, and, besides, he hadn't figured out how to sneak it back into the loft. Because of that, he thought maybe the evening would be boring as hell, but, shit, how surprising had it been that Dad asked questions about being gay? Not sex questions, but just … questions, _personal_ questions. When had he first realized it? Had he _ever_ been attracted to girls? Was he interested in a one-on-one permanent relationship? It'd been pretty amazing even that his father, the man who'd told him to get the fuck out of his life, had been sitting there eating dinner with him and discussing something that had once caused such anger between them. Amazing and, well, kind of neat although throughout most of the meal he'd been nervous, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Nothing happened, though, and he'd been grateful for that. Not that he was ready to kiss and make up and invite Dad over for dinner. Fuck no. He wasn't anywhere near that place. But, well, maybe someday he would be. Maybe.   
  
Justin reached the apartment building's front door, punched in the code, and was skipping up the steps a moment later. He unlocked the loft door and slid it open, but stopped when he saw how dark it was inside. What the fuck? He saw the Jeep parked out front so he knew Brian was here. Had he gone to bed at such an early hour? That's something he rarely did unless he was sick or very tired. Justin closed the door and leaned against it, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom.  
  
He heard a sound—feet slapping against the floor—and looked up just in time to see Brian come down the bedroom steps, a glass of something—JB probably—in his hand. Wearing nothing but low-slung jeans with the zipper halfway opened, he paused to set the glass on the kitchen counter before sauntering toward Justin.  
  
"Hi. Why's it so dark in here?" Justin asked as he walked up to the man.  
  
Brian shrugged, one-shouldered, and raised a hand to caress his cheek. "Sure is late to be getting back from a lecture," he said as he did, the pads of his fingers barely making contact. "Engaged in some extracurricular activities in the professor's office?"  
  
Oh, shit. Justin could hear the underlying tone of anger, and smelled the liquor although, a quick survey told him that he wasn't looking at a fall-down-drunk Brian. Thank God. "This professor's as straight as they come. No, I ate dinner with one of the—with Bob Cappel after the lecture was over. I told you about him. The guy who paints all those huge impressionistic pieces?"  
  
Brian's hand slid behind his neck, and he was pulled into an abrupt kiss, the man's mouth engulfing his so quickly he forgot to breathe. Automatically, he embraced Brian and kissed him back, the JB's whiskey bite instantly on his tongue, a little unsure about what was going on. Even Brian usually observed a few pleasantries before he got down to the business of fucking. "You horny?" he asked when they broke the contact, Brian's warm breath washed over him as their foreheads briefly touched. Then Justin laughed. "What am I saying? You're always horny."  
  
Brian nuzzled his neck, his hands running up and down Justin's back. "Funny, but you don't smell like someone who just came from a lecture."  
  
Fuck. The Brendan thing again. He hadn't been anywhere near Brian's brother since last Saturday, but it didn't make a difference to Brian. His paranoia was in full bloom. "I had dinner, at Vincenzo's. I probably smell like pizza sauce or something."  
  
"You smell like Paco Rabanne," Brian said in a dangerously calm voice.  
  
Justin went cold all over. Oh, my fucking God. Paco Rabanne was what Dad wore. Brian was good with the whole smell-the-trick thing, but how in the world had he figured _that_ out? He'd gone nowhere near Dad. They weren't even on a hand-shaking basis. "Brian, don't be funny," he said and disengaged himself, heading for the bedroom. Maybe he could change the subject and Brian wouldn't pursue it. He sprang up the stairs, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end as he sensed Brian right behind him. All he needed right now was for him to find out about Dad. That would create massive distrust, not to mention World War III, and that's the last thing he wanted when—  
  
Brian grabbed his arm and whirled him around, taking him into a tight embrace and plying him with kisses once again. His lips crushed Justin's as he moved him back toward the bed, his tongue deep in Justin's mouth, his fingernails digging into Justin's arms where he held him. Somehow, Justin managed to pull his mouth free though he couldn't get out of the embrace. "Brian, just let me take a shower. I must—"  
  
"So you can get the Paco Rabanne off?" Brian said in a low voice as the back of Justin's legs hit the bed's platform. Without any warning, he suddenly flung Justin down on the bed so that he was sprawled lengthwise across it. Brian climbed on top of him, straddling Justin as he sat heavily, fierce eyes fixed on his face. He grabbed Justin's arms and pinned him there, his hard cock grinding against Justin's. Then he brought his mouth down atop the boy's once more, bruising his lips with fresh kisses.  
  
Tense and surprised, Justin struggled to free himself. It'd been a long time since they'd played rough and although he wasn't unhappy that Brian wanted to fuck, the sudden intensity was a little frightening. Not that Brian would hurt him, but—  
  
"Stop." Up against his mouth, the command was terse, Brian's hold on him even tighter. "You can give me a moment, can't you? One fucking moment?"  
  
Oh, God, this _was_ about Brendan. Shit, he'd never have believed in a million years that Brian could be insecure, but that's sure as hell what he was seeing. Like he could ever love anyone the way he loved Brian. Like his soul hadn't been permanently grafted into Brian's a long, long time ago. Like his body didn't already belong to Brian completely and for always. Why didn't Brian get that? Had he failed somehow to convey the message or was Brian simply not listening?   
  
Then he remembered the one solid truth about Brian, a fact that never changed: there was only one _real_ way to talk to him …  
  
At that, Justin relaxed, returning the kisses as he strained forward to explore Brian's mouth with his tongue, as he sucked on Brian's lower lip, as he rubbed his cheek against Brian's rough one. He groaned as their crotches pressed together, arching his back as much as he could against Brian's weight. When his arms were released, he wrapped them around Brian's neck, one hand running down the man's smooth, muscled back.  
  
After that, it was all a blur. Brian continued to dominate and he, with a loving sense of purpose, continued to submit. He'd lost his sweater. His pants, and his briefs had been pulled down though not removed. Half-undressed (he did manage to get his shoes off, too, but not his socks), they rolled around on the bed kissing and licking and sucking one another, the moans long and loud, at least on his part. Every time they moved, Brian pinned him to a new spot and worked on him like he urgently needed to put out a fire—or maybe to kindle one. He responded with honest-but-frenzied delight to the man's every touch, totally into their lovemaking. It didn't take long before Justin was certain he'd go out of his fuckin' mind. His cock ached so bad that by the time Brian turned him over, he was grateful for the friction and rutted against the duvet as Brian prepared him. Soon enough, the man was pushing into him and it hurt like hell and felt great all at the same time. As Brian positioned him onto his hands and knees, Justin brought his arm around to grasp the man's thigh, urging him forward, wanting all of Brian, every square inch of him, deep inside. When Brian set a deliberately slow pace that seemed to go on and on into forever, sweat began to trickle down Justin's face and before long, he was begging and pleading with Brian for relief.   
  
The relief came minutes later in a great upswell of sheer pleasure that carried them both along on its crest until they crashed down onto the bed, panting and sweaty and satiated. In the aftermath, Justin didn't move, eyes closed, a delicious ache in his body. Brian rolled off a few minutes later, took care of the condom, and laid down next to him so that they were spooned together. The man's hand sought and found his, fingers intertwining, and Justin knew the gesture was a peace offering, Brian's way of acknowledging that he'd been rough.  
  
Shit, he hated this whole jealousy issue that kept cropping up between them. Why would Brian think such a thing? It just fuckin' broke his heart. Sure, Brendan was a cool guy and he liked him well enough, but, fuck, not like he liked Brian—shit, they were apples and oranges! Didn't Brian know that? Couldn't he see it? Maybe it'd been wrong to suggest that Brendan come to Pittsburgh? But he'd only done it because he knew how great it would be if Brian had a brother he was on good terms with, a guy who'd be his friend and confidant, someone who'd love him, whom he'd love. Not someone to be jealous about, especially not with him.   
  
God, it wasn't fair. Brian was still having those dreams and not sleeping well while he fucking pretended like everything was just great, super, terrific. He was under a lot of pressure at work. Not that the word "fear" had ever crossed his lips because it hadn't, but, well, Justin knew these things. _And he still has me to deal with_ , Justin thought as he tightened his grip on Brian's fingers. No wonder he always wanted to go out tricking.   
  
"Brian?" Justin said, not convinced he should say anything, but, well, maybe he could help.   
  
"Hmm?"  
  
Justin let go of Brian's hand and turned around, lying on his side so he could face the man. He touched Brian's cheek, fingers stroking. "You don't have to be—" Justin licked his lips. "Don't worry about Brendan, okay? He doesn't mean anything to me especially compared to you."  
  
Brian stiffened, a sudden darkness flooding his eyes. "He doesn't mean anything to you yet he's the first thing that pops into your mind?"  
  
Oh, shit. "No, I—"  
  
"We finish fucking about—what?—ten seconds ago and already you're thinking about Brendan?"  
  
"No, I just mean—"  
  
"I fucking know what you mean, Justin." Brian moved away from him, lying flat on his back and staring at the ceiling. "You're obsessed."  
  
"I am not obsessed! That's what I'm trying to tell you!" He propped himself up on an elbow so he could look at Brian, but the man kept his face turned away. "Why do you keep insisting I have some kind of thing for Brendan when I don't? I just like him. He's nice. But I don't—"  
  
"Whatever."  
  
"Stop pretending like you don't care! Of course, you care because you care for me—I know you do! All I'm trying to say is that Brendan's okay—he's a nice man I share some artistic insights with—but that doesn't mean—"  
  
"I will _not_ lie here next to you while you fucking give me another speech about the many virtues of my brother!" Brian massaged his temples then seemed to realize what he was doing and stopped. "Fuck!" In one fluid motion, he was up off the bed, and onto the floor with a thump. He found his jeans and pulled them on.  
  
Shocked, Justin couldn't react. "Brian, stop! What're you doing? I was only trying to—"  
  
Brian whirled around, his face a harsh mask of anger. "To _what_ , Justin? Tell me how great Brendan is and how I pale by comparison? Tell me you don't wish Brendan and I could reverse places so that I'd be the 'evil twin' who'd suddenly come back into the picture?" Brian grabbed a shirt out of the closet and jammed his arms into the sleeves.  
  
Justin sat up in bed, staring at Brian with disbelief. What the fuck had he said? Only a few sentences. He was trying to make things better yet now he'd made them worse? He watched as Brian sat down on the bed's edge and began to pull on his socks. Justin scooted closer. "Brian, please. Don't leave. I'm sorry. I know you've been under a lot of pressure and I don't want to add more." He touched Brian's shoulder, but his hand was quickly shrugged off. "I won't say anything about Brendan at all, okay? I won't go see him either. I'll just … I won't. He can-he can just manage on his own."  
  
Brian shoved his feet into his boots. "Great! So now, my brother gets abandoned in the middle of a strange city because of me and my shitty attitude? Every time someone's in trouble or needs help I somehow end up being the fucked up, selfish bastard no matter what I do! At this point I seem pretty typecast, don't you think?" He stood up and glared down at Justin as their eyes met, his chest rapidly rising and falling. "Shit!"   
  
Brian turned, going down the bedroom stairs, but Justin jumped out of bed and followed him. He caught up with Brian just as he pulled water from the refrigerator. "Don't leave like this, Brian. Please. I'm sorry. Can't we talk about it? I know you have feelings about Brendan and what your mother did. It wasn't right what she did, Brian! I'd be pissed off too and angry and hurt, just like you."  
  
Slamming the refrigerator door, Brian advanced on him until they stood just outside the kitchen, near the stainless steel counter. His eyes like cold shards of ice, Brian stared at Justin so long he thought he might be frozen to the spot. "You think I'm _hurt_?" he said, his voice a deep sneer. "I'm fuckin' _hurt_ like some piss-in-his-pants child who doesn't know better?" Chest heaving like he couldn't find enough air, he looked around, saw the half-empty glass sitting where he'd left it, and, hand like a lightning flash, swept it onto the floor in one swift, shattering motion.   
  
Justin jumped back in horror as glass flew everywhere. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he yelled.  
  
Eyes devoid of life, Brian stared at him. "Better put on some shoes," he said, his face pale and still and deadly calm. His eyes roamed over Justin's naked body. "And some clothes too."  
  
He turned, feet crunching broken glass, as he walked away.  
  
Then, slamming the loft door, he was gone.


	11. Chapter 11

  
Author's notes: Mirror, Part 2: In this crazy, post-bashing world of medications, doctor visits, and strange acronyms like “PTSD,” does Brian have time to get acquainted with a guy who claims to be his _identical twin brother_? Can that really be true? His father was duped, his mother lied, and there are _two_ of him?  


* * *

[ ](http://photobucket.com)

~ 11 ~   


_He's like a cactus in the wilderness, planted in the midst of dry winds and scorching temperatures, all spiky and full of fight._   


I return to my apartment a little after five on Thursday, more than a little disheartened and weary. What I'd love to do, first thing, is light a joint and order a pizza, two sure-fire cures for a shitty day, but that's not going to happen. My money, which seemed so bountiful in New York, looks smaller and smaller every day that passes here in Pittsburgh. I mean, I have at least three months to make this thing work because that's what I gave the landlord in rent money, but I've used almost a full month already with precious little to show for it. Now I even have to economize on the weed, which is looking more like twigs and seeds, and that, needless to say, is a little depressing.  
  
Setting my portfolio next to the entertainment center, I head for the kitchen, open the fridge, and find … well, not much. There's half a wilted salad from the Italian place down the street, a quart of milk, a jar of olives, a hunk of cheddar cheese, a six-pack of beer, and bottled water. Not much for a meal, but, shit, if I can't have my pizza piled high with pepperoni and sausage, there's not much else I _do_ want. Settling for a beer, I set it on the counter and, like a doofus, stand there staring at it as I continue to mull over my situation.   
  
This Saturday, I have a job as a photographer's assistant at a big wedding he's shooting at some ritzy mansion a few miles outside of the city. I'll be lugging around equipment for hours, herding people into certain groupings, and making sure everything he shoots is scanned. Great fun and at just above minimum wage a _lovely_ use of my time. I did a piece for a local rag a few days ago on a dispute between a poor old lady at an apartment building and her landlord who wants to raze it. I shot some great stuff, but had to reel in my emotional involvement, which is always a problem with me. Plus, I've worked a few times for a photographer who has his own studio and does mostly family portraits. That one has been the most fun since it involves kids. Still, I haven't found much work, certainly not like I did in New York, which shouldn't be a surprise, but hell, it is. I wonder if I made the right decision coming here, and not just because of the work issue either.  
  
There's a loud knock at the door, a banging really, and I'm torn out of my morose reflections. I walk over and throw open the door.  
  
Justin stands there, his backpack flung over one shoulder, all bundled up in a heavy blue jacket, a hooded gray sweatshirt, and cargoes. Right away, I can tell that something's wrong. He looks exhausted and disheveled. During the time I've known him, he's always struck me as being well groomed, but now his hair's a mess, his clothing rumpled.   
  
"Hey." I push open the screen door to let him come in.  
  
"Hi." He struggles to smile, but his face doesn't want to do it. His gaze slips past me to survey the room like he's looking for someone else, then returns to my face. "I'm not … interrupting or—" He looks behind like someone might be following him. Fuck, he's clearly distracted, jumpy.  
  
"No, I just got home and I'm having a beer. Would you like one?"  
  
He shakes his head. "No, I just—I wanted to give you—I saw this and knew you'd want to know." He sets the backpack down and fishes something out of a side-pocket, some kind of flyer. When he holds it out to me, I see that his hand isn't steady.  
  
I take the flyer, glance at it, and do a double take. "Jackson Wallick? At Carnegie-Mellon?"  
  
He nods. "Pretty cool, huh?" He tries hard to sound normal, but I pick out a certain breathless quality in his voice. "It's part of the Visiting Artist Program."  
  
"'An Evening With the Photographer,'" I read. "Wow, I can't believe he's in Pittsburgh." Wallick is one of my favorite photojournalists. He's won every award in the profession and worked for _Time, Life, Newsweek, National Geographic_ —you name it. Justin and I discussed him awhile back and I told him the story of how I met Wallick once at an event hosted by the ACLU. It wasn't my finest moment since I behaved like a love-struck teenager ... and I was twenty-seven at the time. Now he's going to be here in Pittsburgh and I can have a do-over? I look at Justin, some goofy remark on my lips, and—like a zoom lens zeroing in on his face—see him with perfect clarity. Even for Justin, with his light skin tones, he's deathly pale. His eyes are bloodshot, the area underneath smudged by shadows, the pinch of his mouth alone telling me there's a problem, and I need to stop pretending like there isn't. I touch his arm. "You okay? You look—"  
  
"Just a little …" He swallows a few times, his eyes not meeting mine, gaze still everywhere like someone with a dagger might jump out at him. "Just kind of shaky. I get this way … sometimes, if …" He wets his lips and seems to forget what he's saying.   
  
"How can I help? Do you need water? Want me to call Brian?"  
  
"No!" he says too quickly, his eyes widening in sudden alarm. "No, don't—don't call him! It's okay, I'm fine and I don't—he's busy and I wouldn't want … he thinks I come here all the time so I shouldn't … I just didn't know where else to go and …" He stops, breathing too hard, and I see that confusion come into his eyes again. He begins to rub his right hand, searching the room as he does. Swaying, his gaze comes back to me. "It was my fault, okay? Mine." He squares his shoulders, ready, I guess, to take the blame for something. "Not just last night, but all of it because-because I pushed him. Chris Hobbs. And Brian. Everyone. I push, that's what I do and it makes disasters and no one can take the blame because it's me—it's always me who-who…"  
  
"Justin, sit down." I take his arm to lead him to the couch, but he doesn't move. "Justin?"  
  
He stares at a spot in front of him, looking at something I can't see, and as I watch, he goes further and further into the scene in his mind, withdrawing from me, the room, his present reality. "Don't," he whispers, speaking directly to someone as he looks right through me. "I know it's my fault. I know! But not again! Please, God, not again!"   
  
"Justin—"  
  
He flinches backwards as if to avoid a blow, and covers his face with both hands. "Oh, God, no-no-no! Stop, please, stop!"  
  
With firm hands, I steer him to the couch and pull him down, but the movement only seems to agitate him more, and his voice rises as he implores the person he's seeing to stop, as he looks around frantically, as he calls Brian's name. I know a little about PTSD because my grandfather suffered from it although they called it "shell shock" in those days, after World War II. Grandpa Billy always relived the battle of Guadalcanal and his screams could wake me from a sound sleep in about two seconds. Justin, I think, is reliving the bashing or, at least, the emotions surrounding it. "It's okay, Justin," I manage to say, although I don't have much air of my own by this time, clutching the rough fabric of his jacket to keep him with me. Shit, shit, shit. I try to remember Brian's number, but of course my mind is blank because I fucking _never_ call Brian! Justin pulls against me, frantic as he struggles to stand up, but I hold him still, afraid if I let go, he'll hurt himself. It occurs to me that he might have his cell phone, so I check his pants pockets and breath a sigh of relief when I find it. Holding him with one arm, I realize his phone's not on, so I power it up, surprised to see a number of unanswered calls from Brian listed on the display page. "Thank God!" Highlighting one of them, I hit Dial.   
  
The phone rings once before Brian picks up. "Justin?" he says, and I hear the note of anxiety in his voice.  
  
"Hi, it's Brendan. Listen, something's happened to Justin. He's here and—"  
  
"A flashback episode?" Brian cuts me off. "He's frightened, upset, begging someone to stop?"  
  
"Yeah, I think that's what it—"  
  
"Keep him still and reassure him that you're there." Brian sounds like he's moving and a second later I hear what sounds like—what the fuck?–something rolling back, like a patio door maybe. "You're on Elwood?" he snaps, and when I don't answer, he says "Brendan!" loudly, like the crack of a whip.  
  
I jump. "Yes, 1617—it's in the back."  
  
"I'll be there in ten minutes."  
  
The phone goes dead.  
  
Actually, he makes it in seven and I hate to think of the red lights he blew through. By the time Brian pounds frantically and rattles the doorknob, trying to get through a door that's somehow locked, Justin has calmed down a little, lying slumped on the couch, his quiet sobs enough to tear at my heart. With a reassuring pat, I get up, make it to the door, and yank it open, wondering who locked it when—  
  
Brian storms past me with no greeting whatsoever. He finds Justin and drops down next to him so swiftly I can barely follow the motion. Seated on the couch, he takes Justin into his arms, his movements gentle, his voice very soft, all the frenetic energy gone in a heartbeat. "Justin? Come here. It's okay, everything's okay."  
  
Justin wraps both arms around Brian's waist, his face pressed into his chest. He's saying something, brokenly, but I can't hear the words.  
  
"No, it's not all your fault. That's bullshit." Brian rubs his back, smoothing down his hair, stroking him, all his attention focused on Justin. He looks up, and gives me a sharp glance. "Do you have a blanket? And some water?"  
  
I find the blanket first, and as he drapes it around Justin's shoulders, I get a bottle of water. Brian takes it and I notice the pill bottle lying next to him on the couch. He's still soothing Justin, speaking softly at his ear, and a moment later, he coaxes the boy to swallow the capsule in his hand. When I see Brian wipe Justin's wet face with the side of his hand, I find the tissues and he gives me another look, not quite so hostile, and uses several of them before he goes back to whispering at Justin's ear.  
  
Unsure what to do, I sit on the green chair that's at a ninety-degree angle to the couch, but try not to stare. I consider leaving the room, but Brian might need something so I decide to stay. A few minutes later, I notice Justin's anguished murmurs have slowed down, and shortly after that, they stop altogether. I sit there, elbows propped on knees, hands clasped, feeling bad for Justin and what he's had to suffer. Who, I wonder, was the piece of shit that did this to him? It makes no sense to me that a person would fault someone for being who they are, but then bigotry is always that way. Blacks, women, gays—it doesn't matter when all you're looking for is a fucking scapegoat. But it always hurts worse when it's someone you know and this young man, well, I like him. He could almost be a brother-in-law, although from what I've been able to read between the lines, that notion would not please Brian.  
  
When I realize the room has gone quiet, I raise my eyes to discover Brian staring at me. He looks pale and haggard. Shit, what happened with these two? A lovers' quarrel? I straighten out. "Is he …?" I whisper, indicating Justin with the wave of one hand.  
  
"Asleep? Yeah." Brian shifts Justin, pulling him a little closer, and I see what a dead weight he is against Brian. He's really out. "Don't worry," Brian adds as if he can read my mind. "He just needs a little time to recoup, like a twenty minute nap. We won't be here all night."  
  
"I'm not worried at all. You're welcome here. I just sorry it had to be like this."  
  
Brian looks around my apartment. "Why was he here?" he asks and I hear something in his tone that makes me nervous though I'm not sure why.   
  
"Uh, to drop off this." I find the flyer where it's landed on the floor and hold it up for Brian to read.  
  
"Jackson Wallick?"  
  
"Yeah, he's a photojournalist who—"  
  
"I know who he is."   
  
"Oh." I lay the thing aside. "Justin knew I liked him, a lot, so he—"  
  
"—came over here to be close to you while he had his flashback episode?" Brian's voice is clipped, acerbic, but there's also a ragged quality to it like maybe he's popping off when he shouldn't.   
  
Our gaze locks, and I read all the unspoken accusations in his eyes. Holy fuck. "You think Justin and I are … attracted to each other?" I ask, the words forced out against a suddenly dry throat. But I don't give him time to answer. "Brian, that's nuts. You're way off base. He's about the last person in the world I'd be attracted to."  
  
Brian's eyes have gone hard and I know that's not a good sign. "Because you're so straight the thought repulses you?"  
  
"That has nothing to do with it. He's _your_ lover. Do you think I'm going to fuck my brother's lover?"  
  
"You hardly know me."  
  
I hiss in disbelief. "Look, he's a sweet kid, but it was obvious to me from the first time I met him that he was crazy about you. I don't do that, Brian, okay? I'm not Mr. Perfect and I've done some things I'm not too happy about, but stealing another man's lover isn't one of them."  
  
We stare again, and I'm not sure I've made any progress with him. Justin's right. He's a tough nut to crack. "How about a drink?" I ask him, on impulse. "I'll bet you could use one."  
  
He appraises me like he's looking for the hidden meaning in my remark. Then he nods.  
  
"Scotch okay?"  
  
He twists his mouth, one eyebrow going up. "Neat."  
  
A few minutes later, I hand him the glass and sit down with my beer. I've had a moment to think on what he said about Justin, and decide there's something _I_ need to say. Who knows if I'll have another chance and right now he's a captive audience. I take a slug of the beer, the yeasty flavor settling sweetly on my tongue, and dial up my courage. "Uh, you know, maybe it would be better if I … went back to Spokane and we just, uhm, exchanged Christmas cards or something."  
  
He frowns, throws back the rest of his scotch, and sets the glass on the couch. "Why?"  
  
I remember to look him in the eye. "Because it seems to me, from what I've been able to gather, that Justin ended up stuck between us. I'm not sure why or how that happened, but I think it's fuckin' unfair to the kid. If we can't make a go at … well, being brothers, we should just say so and move on. Sticking him in the middle and blaming him for something when he's only trying to help, that sucks."  
  
Again, the staring contest commences. What is it with him? God, he's so wound up and distrustful. Finally, he looks down at Justin. "So, you're straight?"  
  
Shit. Okay, time to lay it all on the line. This tiptoeing around Brian is getting me nowhere. "I don't want to talk about me or what I am or anything like that—not now, not when we're trying to figure this out. But, no, I'm not straight. I'm bisexual." I hold up a hand when he opens his mouth. "And I am _not_ attracted to your beautiful blond boyfriend. Yes, I've got eyes. Yes, I can see how attractive he is. But, no, not my cup of tea and if I felt any other way, I _would_ go back to Spokane."  
  
"You can't say—"  
  
"I fucking _can_ say." I cut him off right away. "I grew up without siblings. I always wanted a brother and once I knew I had one, I always wanted to know him, to have a relationship with him. If you think I'm going to jeopardize that by a little roll in the hay with your lover, you're wrong, Brian, you're just fucking wrong." I take a shaky breath because I'm angered by his implications. "I like Justin. He's a great kid, but it's _you_ he's in love with, _you_ he adores, _you_ he's set his heart on. That's obvious to me and I've only known him a couple of weeks. And, frankly, I wouldn't have the ego to go up against you even if I _was_ interested. So, can't we leave it that way? He needs to be taken out of the equation. So, if you have a problem with me, deal directly." I gesture at Justin, still in Brian's arms. "Let's do that for him, okay?"  
  
Brian breaks our gaze and stares at the floor, pinching the bridge of his nose. Nobody says anything for a few minutes so the only sound is Mr. Zimmerman's television blaring out the news upstairs. Finally, Brian raises his head and studies the wall where some of my fashion and portrait stuff has been hung. "Not bad," he says. He points to the picture of a model in a gauzy red dress I shot on the roof of a building in NYC. "Kind of Melvin Sokolsky-ish."  
  
My eyes widen. "You know photography?"  
  
"Some. I have to. I'm in advertising."  
  
"Really? I didn't know that."  
  
Brian rubs Justin's back. "He didn't tell you?"  
  
"No, he's been very circumspect. I think he's afraid of giving anything away."  
  
We stare again, then Brian takes a deep breath. "So … did you find a job?" he asks, and there's a little rumble in his voice like it's hard for him to say the words.  
  
That calls for another hit of beer. "No. I've had a few offers, but nothing that pays well." I run a finger along the bottle's slippery, chilled surface, and try not to let the discouragement show, but I'm not good at hiding my feelings so I must look disgustingly forlorn. "I have an interview at one of the local newspapers next week, but it'd only be part-time."  
  
Brian frowns, but he looks, maybe, a little sympathetic. "You work freelance, right?"  
  
"Yeah, but I was getting pretty steady work from _The Village Voice_ , so—"  
  
"You worked for _The Village Voice_?"   
  
"Didn't I tell you that? I thought I did." Without thinking, I sigh. "Not that it's doing me a lot of good. I've gotten a couple of gigs, but … well, the jobs just aren't coming." I chew on my lip. "It makes me wonder why I believed I could make a living as a photographer."  
  
Another long stare follows. "I know the managing editor of _The Pittsburgh Times_ ," Brian says finally, in a quiet voice.   
  
"You do?" _The Pittsburgh Times_ is the largest newspaper in town. Working for them, even freelance, would pay well. "You know Mo Minnehan?"  
  
"Good, you've done your homework. Yeah, he's one of my clients and I have a great working relationship with him." He pauses to study my photographs, a long, appraising look that makes me hold my breath. "I could give him a call, if you like," he says, his voice steady but with that seem deep undertone I heard earlier. "I wouldn't do it just because you're … my brother. But you're good. If I'm going to recommend someone to him, they better be the best."  
  
I'm so pleased I'm afraid I might do something foolish and piss him off, so I don't say anything for a moment. "Thanks. That'd be great," I manage to say at last.  
  
Now his gaze rests on me and his eyes narrow. "But you have to do something for me."  
  
"What's that?"  
  
"Get your hair cut by someone who fuckin' knows what they're doing."  
  
I put a hand on my head. "What's wrong with my hair?"  
  
"Everything." He gives a one-shouldered shrug as if he can't be bothered explaining something so obvious. "I'll give you my stylist's number."  
  
I think I should be offended, but for some reason, I'm not.  
  
Brian pauses to check on Justin, but, lying peacefully against his chest, the kid is out cold. "You have a suit?" he asks, when he refocuses on me.  
  
"Of course I have a suit. What do you think, that I'm some kind of country bumpkin?"  
  
And then, inexplicably, we smile at each other. "I think you dress like a dork," Brian says, and sticks his tongue in his cheek. "In fact, if I'm going to recommend you to Mo, I need to know you're not going to embarrass me by showing up in unsuitable attire—especially since you look so much like me." He gestures imperiously. "Let's see the suit."  
  
The evening is getting stranger by the second. "You want to see my _suit_?"   
  
"Yeah, I do. And I want another drink." He grabs the glass next to him on the couch and holds it out to me.   
  
I take it from him. "If you get drunk, I'm not letting you drive," I tell him, and then realize how dorky that sounds. Shit, he's right.   
  
"I can hold my liquor very well, but while you're at it, order some dinner—Justin should eat when he wakes up." He takes a very pointed look around the place. "I'm assuming you don't cook."  
  
"And you do?"  
  
"Hell, no."  
  
I raise an eyebrow at him, and then start laughing. "Okay, fine, and while I'm at it, should I draw a bath for you? Lend you a pair of pajamas? Put a mint on your pillow? "  
  
"Who wears pajamas?" He waves a hand. "Go on. The scotch, then the suit, then the dinner."  
  
With a smile, I fix him another drink and then go into my bedroom to get the suit. I'm relieved that the mood has lightened, but also, I don't know, maybe a little embarrassed? Like he's judged me and I've come up wanting? Okay, I knew he was the one who dressed well. His clothes all look expensive and impeccable. Even the jeans and shirt he's wearing tonight are probably Versace or someone like that. And now suddenly he wants to dress me so I won't humiliate him in front of one of his clients? Fuck! I grab the suit out of the closet along with the shirt I usually wear with it, and pick out a tie, feeling this sense of … well, it's weird, because it's not _just_ embarrassment. There's another emotion and as I stand there and try to pinpoint it, I realize with a little jolt that I feel … fuck, I feel _delight_ , an almost giddy sense of delight because… I have to lick my lips and concentrate hard to follow where this trail leads. I feel warm and happy and almost goofy because I'm being ordered around by my big brother! Oh, hell, I am such a dork—Brian has that right. Shit, I could stand here and get teary-eyed I feel so good about this "breakthrough" we've had, but I know I better get a grip and not piss off Brian with a big, ugly show of emotion. Something tells me if I do, he's going to kick my butt … right after he tells me how unfashionable I am.  
  
A little later, after I order Chinese from the place around the corner, he's doing just that, but it doesn't hurt, not at all. "Damn," he says as he rejects the fourth shirt I've pulled from my closet to pair with the suit, which he hates. "There's no way you can be half-a-fag. If you were, you'd have a little fashion sense." His lip curls as he says this, and he's clearly offended that he's been forced to endure the sight of my clothing. Biting my inner lip, I struggle not to laugh at his pained expression. Fuck, I like him. He's kind of funny even when he's not trying to be and _that_ is a real surprise.  
  
"Listen," I say quickly when Justin stirs in his arms. "I'd appreciate it if you'd keep that half-a-fag thing to yourself. I'm just … I'm not—" I take a deep breath. "There's a lot to that and I don't, I'm not ready to go public with it. Yet."  
  
Brian shrugs. "Nothing to tell, little brother," he says softly, and turns his attention to Justin who's just cracked open an eye. "Hey, Sunshine."  
  
_Sunshine_? Damn, he's got it bad. With a smile still in place, I head into the kitchen to give the boy a minute to wake up without me hovering over him. As I pull down some plates from the cupboard and get silverware from the drawer, I couldn't be more excited if I'd just learned I'd won the Pulitzer. Fuck, I know it's not going to be easy with Brian. Let's face it, the guy's prickly, and I'm sure that makes him dangerous if he's crossed. He's like a cactus in the wilderness, planted in the midst of dry winds and scorching temperatures, all spiky and full of fight. But inside … inside there's life and love and all kinds of goodness and I've seen that tonight however begrudgingly he's given it. It's only a start, I know that. I'm not overly optimistic or unrealistic. I understand the road ahead is going to be long and tough and full of pitfalls and pain, especially when those cactus needles strike. But fuck, still, it's a beginning.   
  
A really good beginning.


	12. Chapter 12

  
Author's notes: Mirror, Part 2: In this crazy, post-bashing world of medications, doctor visits, and strange acronyms like “PTSD,” does Brian have time to get acquainted with a guy who claims to be his _identical twin brother_? Can that really be true? His father was duped, his mother lied, and there are _two_ of him?  


* * *

[ ](http://photobucket.com)

 

~ 12 ~  
  
_Still, maybe Brendan's all right. He's a little, I don't know, goofy, and way too relaxed for my taste. It's hard to imagine we have the same DNA, but, fuck, he's a hell of a photographer and he seems bright when he's not acting like a moron._

By the time I get to the mall it's nearly 4:30 and I'm convinced that spending an hour in a bridal shop with four giggling girls is just about the last thing I ever want to do in my life. Okay, I'm gay, but does that mean I belong with a gaggle of girls squealing about lace and ribbons? Don't get me wrong. I _like_ girls. They're fun to be with, not afraid of their emotions, and they always smell so good. And she's my best friend from third grade so I _want_ to be there for Daphne just like she's been there for me. Still, this whole man of honor thing is nothing but a huge slap at my manhood, and believe me, that's suffered enough lately.   
  
As I take the escalator to the second level of the mall where Daph says the shop is located, I have to go over my disgraceful performance at Brendan's apartment last Thursday for the fiftieth time. Okay, maybe "disgraceful" is the wrong word. I have to keep telling myself that I didn't do that _deliberately_ , it just happened. But, fuck, talk about freaking someone out. I walked into his apartment and, boom, just like that, I'm doing the whole flashback number. Not that I have any idea what it looks like because whenever it happens I just go into this fugue state where no one exists except Chris Hobbs and me. How horrifyingly ironic is that? Chris Hobbs, the person I hate the most in this world, is stuck in my head, imprinted on the gray matter for the rest of my life. Shit, that's just gross. I wish there was some way to get him out, a kind of radiation treatment for trauma victims that would excise that kind of "cancer."   
  
Coming off the escalator, I shake my head, trying to get that stuff out of my mind. I behaved like a real wuss, and now Brendan will probably be holding his breath whenever I'm around. Not that I plan on being around that much. Hell, no. Those two need to work out their own shit so I'm going to let them do that … at least for a while. It does seem like the good part of the whole experience is that Brian was forced to interact with his brother. Imagine that? He had an actual _conversation_ with Brendan and lived to talk about it. Amazing when you consider that Brian isn't big on exploring his feelings. When I asked him what he and Brendan discussed, he said, "Things." I so wanted to kill him when he said that. But I happen to know the "things" were about getting Brendan a job and Brian helping him somehow. That blew me away because I know what a change of attitude that is for Brian. They've talked a couple of times in the last few days—I heard it with my own ears. And I saw Brendan's e-mail address on Brian's computer. Makes you almost believe in God.   
  
And there's an added bonus to that whole thing too. Brian's attitude. Even though he won't admit it, he's upset when I have one of those episodes, and in the aftermath, he's always so nice. He gets over it, but for a few days after the Brendan incident he fussed over me, making sure I was eating healthy food, that I took my meds, got enough sleep, all the caretaker stuff he used to do when I first came to live with him. It was nice. There was even some mind-blowing make-up sex although, despite my best efforts, that didn't happen 'til two days later. Still, it was such a relief that he stopped being mad at me, and, yeah, I know now I have to tell him about Dad although, well ... maybe in a few days.  
  
Up ahead, I see Daph. She has Essie Ling and Trisha Cook with her—two of the bridesmaids—and, fuck, _David_ is with them, standing outside the bridal shop. Great. Just what I need, more— But then I remember I'm going to be seeing a lot of the guy over the next few months and I need to at least _try_ to get along with him. For Daph's sake, right? "Hey," I say when I'm close enough.  
  
Daphne clasps her hands together and bounces. "You made it!"   
  
"Of course I made it." I wait while she kisses my cheek and I give her a return hug. "I said I'd be here, right?"  
  
"I just thought …" She's practically vibrating with excitement. " … you might change your mind."  
  
I give her my best smile. "Not a chance. Hi, David." I nod toward him then wave at Essie, who's this tiny little Asian girl from St. James who makes Daph look huge, and Trisha, her blond, WASP counterpart. They giggle and wave back, but stay where they are, which is normal for St. James kids where I'm concerned. After the prom, most of them just wanted to pretend like the bashing never happened, which I guess I can understand. I wish it had never happened too.  
  
"Bailey's running late," Daphne tells me as David walks closer. That's no surprise, Bailey Carmichael, the redhead in this little multi-cultural group, will probably be late for her own wedding not to mention the rest of her life.  
  
"Hey," David says as he slips an arm around Daph's waist. David's a little taller than me, but not by much—maybe an inch or so. He's African-American, his skin a café au lait color although he always looks dark next to Daphne. With his close-cropped black hair, straight-arrow sweater-vest-shirt-tie-slacks combo, and wire-rimmed glasses, he's very preppy—too preppy for my taste. But, okay, I'm not blind. He has a nice build and a kind of Will Smith vibe. "You feeling better?" he asks me, his smile showing even, white teeth.  
  
I stare at him, not blinking.  
  
"I told him how you thought you were getting sick last week, remember?" Daphne quickly turns her back on David long enough to throw me her "don't freak out" expression.  
  
"Oh, sure, uh, yeah—thanks for asking. I'm doing much better," I say when I realize she didn't rat me out.  
  
"The flu is everywhere." He gives his head a little shake. "Fortunately, I rarely get sick, but—"  
  
"Listen," Daphne interrupts, squeezing David's arm, "Essie, Trish, and I thought we'd go over to Victoria's Secret and look at the lingerie until Bailey gets here. Why don't you guys go to Starbucks?" She points down the long mall corridor, and we see the familiar Starbucks sign. "Bailey won't be here for another thirty minutes." She turns toward David, tipping up her face to give him her cutest expression. "You've got the time, don't you? I know you weren't planning on staying, but otherwise poor Justin will have to hang out with a bunch of girls in a store filled with frou-frou."  
  
"Okay, sure, I guess we can—"  
  
"Thank you, David!" Daphne leans up to give him a kiss. "Come on, girls!"  
  
Ten minutes later, David and I are sitting across from one another. As I inhale the piquant aroma of Chinese food coming from the nearby food court, already I'm desperate. We've discussed the weather, the upcoming holidays, the wedding, and, yeah, how about those Steelers? David tackles each topic with an earnestness that couldn't possibly be natural. The guy is so serious and so sincere, which just makes me feel guilty for being so bored around him. Fuck, if Brian can make inroads with Brendan, I ought to be able to have a half decent relationship with the guy who'll be Daph's husband. We'll probably be hanging around over barbeques and dinner parties and all that suburban shit … at least after they're done traveling in Europe and settle down. Although, will I be doing all that socializing with _Brian_? Somehow, it seems unlikely. I wish like hell Brian would realize his feelings for me because it's very apparent he _has_ feelings. But, no, not Mr. Tight-Lipped-Fuck'em-and-Leave'em. Shit, he can be so stubborn sometimes. What's wrong with admitting that you're in a relationship when—  
  
"Justin?"  
  
I raise my eyes from my coffee, leaning forward a bit because the mall is starting to fill up and there's a lot of noise around us.  
  
"Look, I know you don't like me," he says with that earnestness firmly in place, a set look on his face, "and I can understand that, believe me. I'm … compared to you, I'm pretty dull and I know that, so it wouldn't come as a big shock if you said that to me." He looks off in the direction the girls went. "But, fuck, Justin, at least make an attempt. We have to get along, don't we? You're Daphne's best friend. I don't want the two of you to lose touch especially since we'll never have the problems some male/female friends have when one gets married because—" He catches himself.  
  
We stare at one another. He doesn't know about that little incident last winter—the devirginization of his intended. Fuck, _I_ hardly know it anymore. I've done everything I could to erase it from my mind because … well, it's just not a top ten memory, trust me. Still, what he's saying is kind of a backhanded compliment. "So, because I'm gay, you don't have to worry?" I say, a sharp edge to my voice.  
  
"I didn't mean it that way."  
  
"Sure, you did."  
  
"I just meant that I don't have a reason to distrust you because you've been Daphne's friend for so long."  
  
"Because I never fucked her so why should I start now?"  
  
He stares at me, lips pushed together, eyebrows raised. "Believe me, I don't think of you as a rival in any sense of the word. In fact…" He chews on the corner of his lower lip in an uncharacteristic gesture, brow knit. "…I admire you."  
  
That's not what I expected. "Me?"  
  
"Hell, yes." His gaze drifts off my face and fixes itself on something in the mall. "You're so brave. You do just what you want and you don't give a damn what anyone thinks. You're just _you_."  
  
He's talking about me being out. "It wasn't always that way," I say to him, a little cautious, not sure why he's bringing this up. He's _not_ gay, I know that much. My gaydar might be off sometimes, but it couldn't be _that_ far off. "Aren't you who you want to be?"  
  
Immediately, he shakes his head. "I'm heir to a proud family fortune, don't you know?" He smiles when he says it, but I hear the bitterness in his voice. "I have to set an example."  
  
Fuck me. The kid's in his own closet? His great-grandfather, I know, was one of the first black men to start a bank in the Pittsburgh area, a tiny one-man operation that eventually burgeoned into the huge financial institution today known as HIF-Hall's Investments and Finance. The Halls are, as Daph said, "veddy, veddy rich." And he's black to boot, which must mean he's carrying an extra burden given all the racism that still exists. "Shit, so you're supposed to be proper and everything because your family says so?" I ask him without thinking.  
  
He nods. "I have to be."  
  
"No, you don't."  
  
He gives me a look like I couldn't possibly understand. "My family expects it of me."  
  
I look him calmly in the eyes. "Fuck them. Hell, isn't it _you_ who has to live your life?"  
  
He leans forward a little, and there's a gleam in his eyes. "Yeah? Tell me more."  
***  
I'd just returned from Jordan McCrady's studio where I spent more than six hours helping him with what has to be a staggering shooting schedule. We've been doing family portraits, mostly, parents and kids or just kids, which will become gifts at Christmas time for all the doting grandmas and grandpas out there. To me, it was great fun, especially herding all the little kids into place and then standing behind Jordan while he shoots, making faces at them so they'll smile. I love kids and have always wanted a house filled with them some day. I don't know if being an only child has anything to do with that, but it makes sense that it would. Anyway, I've no more than come through the door, which I don't bother to close, and set down the burger and fries I bought for dinner when I hear someone banging on the screen door. I turn around.   
  
It's Brian.  
  
"Hey." I go to the door and push it open because he seems to have his hands full.  
  
He gives me a half-smile that lifts one corner of his mouth and comes in. "I'm on my way to the mall to pick up Justin so I've only got a second," he tells me, like he fears I'll invite him to stay for tea or something.   
  
We've talked a little and I'm finding him to be very quirky—moody, I guess, would be a good word. He can be funny one moment, dead serious the next, and pissed off to an nth degree two seconds after that. You have to pay attention when you're conversing with him, or you can end up down a hole pretty quick. "Uh, you look like you just came from a mall," I say to him. He's carrying what must be a suit underneath one of those plastic garment bags. This particular one says Ralph Lauren on it. And he has a shopping bag in his other hand.  
  
"Nope." He lays the garment bag over the back of the couch, and unzips it.  
  
I watch him, struck by the fact that he's got on business attire and must've come from work. Damn, he looks sharp. I have no idea who designed the gray suit he's wearing, but he sure didn't get it off the rack at JC Penney. And he smells good too, a kind of fresh-yet-spicy scent that might be Brian, but maybe it's aftershave. He's so damn pulled together it makes me feel like a bum. "What're you—"  
  
"Here." He pulls out a medium-gray blazer that has a tweedy look to it—two button and kind of retro with one of those notched lapels like they wore in the sixties. A pair of tailored black trousers are also revealed. "Try it on."  
  
"What's this?" I asked as he thrusts the blazer into my hands. I read the label. Hell, it _is_ Ralph Lauren. "Did you buy—?"  
  
"It's from my closet." He pulls something out of the bag and I see that it's a sweater. He hands that to me at as well. "This is your outfit for the interview tomorrow."  
  
Yeah, he managed to help me get the interview. Or I managed. Maybe we did it together, I don't know. But I'm going in to meet Mo Minnehan and now he's dressing me in his clothes? "Brian, you don't have to—"  
  
"Yeah, I do." He focuses on my hair. "Janine did a great job—at least it's looking half-way decent now."  
  
"Thanks." A little self-consciously, I run a hand through my hair before looking at the clothes he wants me to wear. Tweedy blazer, black pants, and … a sweater? The sweater's a darker gray, not tight, but not baggy either, ribbed at the bottom edge, cuffs, and along the placket opening with one of those mock collars. "Isn't this too casual?"  
  
"No." He pulls a pair of black, side-zip boots out of the bag. "Mo wants a consummate professional and your references from the _Voice_ tells him that about you. But he also wants an artiste." He pauses long enough to give me a smirk. "That's what the clothes say."  
  
I blink. "Artistes wear sweaters to job interviews?"  
  
"They do if the sweater's Ralph Lauren and fits like it was tailored to your specifications."  
  
"How do you know it'll—?"  
  
"It fits me." He gives me a disgusted look like he doesn't have time for these trivialities. "Try it on. _Now_." Brian looks around. "Where's your portfolio? I'll pick out what you need to take."  
  
"Did I miss the moment you became my personal manager?" I ask, but I'm smiling when I say it. He's still tickling me with this stuff, and besides, I'm developing a fondness for his haranguing. Yeah, I know. Sick.   
  
He waves a hand because he's spotted the portfolio. "Go."  
  
So, to humor him, I go into the bedroom and pull on the clothes. Of course, he's right. It seems like he makes a habit of that. The clothing fits perfectly and for the first time, I'm glad I had that gym membership in NYC and actually used it. Otherwise, I doubt my upper body measurements would match Brian's. But, shit, as I look in the mirror, I see what he's trying to achieve. I still look well dressed, very respectable, but kind of artsy thanks to the sweater and the tweed jacket. Okay, the guy's in advertising and knows how to package anything to make it attractive … even me. I walk back into the living room.  
  
Brian is sorting through my portfolio on the coffee table, but looks up, cocking an eyebrow. "Yeah, I knew it. It works perfectly."  
  
"You don't think wearing Ralph Lauren to a job interview says something I don't want to say?"  
  
Brian adds several pictures to the growing pile on the couch. "Like what? 'I'm successful and you'd be a fool not to hire me'?"  
  
Hmm. He has a point. "Well, okay. Thanks, that's really nice of—"  
  
"Shit." He throws another picture onto the pile. "Don't talk to me about nice. One of these days I'm going to have to introduce you to my friends and family." He gives one of those shrugs of his, the kind that says he couldn't care less although I know it's a lie. "Might as well start getting you ready now."  
  
"Family like your sister?"  
  
"No. Real family. The kind that matters."  
  
I know he has some "family" that includes a best friend and the guy's mother although I'm not sure why the mother is included in the package. But I don't ask questions. Brian doesn't like to be cross-examined. "Thought anymore about going to the lecture with me?" I ask him in my most casual voice because I don't want to push him.  
  
He looks up at me and for a moment I see something in his eyes, just a flicker of … regret? "No, I'm not going to be able to make it."  
  
Does he want to go, but thinks he can't? "Oh, too bad," I say immediately, keeping my own voice neutral.  
  
Abruptly, Brian stands up. "Okay, that's what you should take. It's a representative sample of your work and it balances out the artsy stuff with the hard news."  
  
I look at the stack he's created, but, fuck, he seems to be on a roll so who am I to challenge him? "Okay, well, thanks."  
  
Brian heads for the door. "Just don't blow it when you get there. Everything I've done is surface. _You_ have to show him the depth."  
  
I follow him. "Depth. Okay, I can do that."  
  
He turns around, and looks me in the eye. "Call me when you hear something positive from Mo."  
  
"You're so confident."  
  
"One of us has to be." He gives me the raised eyebrow sardonic look he's perfected, and pushes open the screen door.  
  
"See you later!" I call.  
  
"Whatever," he mumbles, which makes me sigh. Yeah, that's my brother. Major conversation isn't one of his strong suits. Chuckling, I close the door and head for the bedroom so I can take off these fancy clothes before I eat my dinner. The smile I'm sporting, though, doesn't leave my face for a long time.

***

Traffic's bad, as it usually is at this hour, so by the time I make it to the mall, Justin's been trapped in a bridal shop with four girls for over an hour. As I walk toward the place, I wonder if there'll be any of him left to take home. Let's face it, just because Justin has a fag hag as a best friend doesn't mean he knows for shit about females and the ones he _does_ know something about—the moms—he relates to differently than these girls. I can't wait to see the expression on his face. "Abject terror" is the one I'm hoping for.

I chuckle a little then catch myself. Shit, I have no excuse for behaving like a grinning fool. Just because I did a little favor for my—for Brendan, means nothing. If he's going to stay here in the Pitts, he has to work, right? And, for obvious reasons, I sure as shit don't want him in some menial job dishing out burgers at McDonald's or working at Blockbuster. The whole thing with Justin having one of his episodes and me going over to Brendan's apartment, well, that was just plain weird. It was like someone took me by the scruff of the neck and plopped me down in front of him, but "someone" _who_? God? Fuck, I don't believe in him or her or it, so forget that. 

Still, maybe Brendan's all right. He's a little, I don't know, goofy, and way too relaxed for my taste. It's hard to imagine we have the same DNA, but, fuck, he's a hell of a photographer and he seems bright when he's not acting like a moron. And the stuff with Justin? Okay, maybe I overreacted. Brendan was so blunt about _not_ being interested in Justin that he'd have to be a pathological liar if what he said wasn't true—or one hell of an actor. I don't think he's either although I'm not sure why. 

Too bad about the Jackson Wallick lecture, though. I like Wallick's stuff and would've gone except … fuck, it's too soon. I know so many people at Carnegie-Mellon, especially alumni. It's a sure bet that if I show up with Brendan someone's going to see us who'll make sure such a tantalizing piece of gossip gets passed on. Then the whole thing will hit the fan—especially with the family—and I'll have lost my chance to manage it. I can't ask Brendan _not_ to go, of course, and just have to hope no one notices him. But, hell, I need to do something soon—an announcement or public appearance or whatever-the-fuck. Shit, even the idea is giving me a headache.

As I come up to the bridal shop, I see that my worst fear has come true … or maybe it's the funniest moment of my day. Inside, three girls are prancing around in huge dresses with colossal, puffed sleeves, and gigantic, full-length skirts—each one must use ten yards of satin. Daphne is standing with them, waving her hands, and looking manically unhappy. And then there's Justin, the deer-in-the-headlights boy in the midst of all this femininity who is edging toward the door. No sales personnel are anywhere in sight, but then again, can you blame them? My tongue goes into my cheek and I vow not to use the words "I told you so" when I get inside and rescue Justin.

"Brian!" he says when he sees me, his voice overflowing with relief. "Hi!"

"Hi, Brian!" Daphne calls, bouncing between the yellow and the green and the blue cream-puffs-clothed-as-girls. "Bailey, Essie, Trish? This is Brian, he's Justin's …"

Justin jerks around and a look passes between them.

"… friend," Daphne finishes, waving a hand at me.

I know, of course, that Justin warned her off so she wouldn't use the "b" word in front of me. He's very fond of that word, but it's just a stupid expression, one he shouldn't get hung up on. What the fuck? We are what we are and there's no reason to put a label on it. Still, I'm in a good mood and I love to shock people, so before he can even register the movement, I'm in front of Justin. Slipping an arm around his waist, I slide my other hand behind his neck and draw him to me, my lips atop his, my tongue inside his mouth. For a moment, it's so good both of us forget that we have an audience, our bodies pressed together as he puts both arms around my neck and returns the kisses he's getting.

"Well …" Daphne says, her voice pitched an octave higher, and I break the kiss, looking over to grin at her. "Never a dull moment when you're around, Brian," she tells me with a giggle. "But right now, I've got bigger problems." She gestures at the cream puffs. "And Justin's been about as helpful as only a man of honor can be!"

"I _told_ you I wasn't good at this shit!" Justin uses his bitchiest voice.

"He told you he wasn't good at it!" I echo, enjoying myself.

"You didn't tell me you'd laugh like a crazy fool every time the girls try on a new dress!" Daphne shoots back.

"Justin." I give him a mock frown, then direct my attention at Daphne. "What's the problem?" It's clear that someone needs to do something and it's always me. I've yet to figure out why except that the world is composed largely of pussies and if there's one thing I'm not, it's a pussy.

Daphne looks massively unhappy. "My mom had to be out of town on a business meeting and Bailey's getting ready to leave for a family vacation so this was the only time we could get together 'til, like, after Christmas. I just wanted to pick the colors and—"

I raise an eyebrow. "You haven't picked your colors?"

"I'm just not sure," Daphne tells me, the worry lines multiplying. "I thought maybe if we all liked a certain color it would help me decide so I asked everyone to come with me … to help."

The woman definitely needs a mother. Even I know that. But in lieu of one, a fashion conscious fag will do. "So, have you narrowed the choices?" I look at their hideous dresses. "In color? Or style?"

"We can't agree on anything that we all like," one of the cream puffs wails—the tiny Asian one who looks like the dress swallowed her whole.

She likes blue and I like green and Bailey likes red!" the little blonde says right on cue. 

Damn, is half the world without fashion sense? "When's the wedding?" I ask Daphne as I walk around, pulling dresses from the rack, taking a quick look, and then putting them back.

"In May."

"And it's outdoors? Didn't you say it was in your grandmother's garden?"

"Yes."  
  
I take a moment to look at all of them, shaking my head. "You don't wear full-length gowns at an outdoor wedding, and your color choices are all wrong," I say as I pick out then discard another dress. No, green is going to wreck havoc with the Asian's skin tones.  
  
"What do you mean?" Daphne asks.  
  
I raise an eyebrow. "Just that. There are rules about weddings and that's one of them." I try a little black number, but, shit, the Asian chick is small enough as it is. If she stands sideways in this dress, she'll disappear.   
  
"How is it you know that about weddings?" Justin asks, and I realize he's been following me as I walk from rack to rack. "I don't know the first thing about—"  
  
"—shit," I finish for him, and pause to give him a look. "I've known people in the industry."  
  
"Oh." Justin looks clueless for a moment and then his eyes light up. "Oh! People you—" He looks at the girls who are huddled together in a satiny mélange of fabric, and lowers his voice. "—people you fucked?"  
  
"You amaze me sometime." Then, just like that, I see it and not a minute too soon. The dress is cocktail length, a classic strapless number with a slightly flared skirt. It's a dusty rose color, which will work for blonde, brunette, and redhead alike, and if Daphne pairs the rose with a sage green she'll have gorgeous colors that'll delight the florist, the baker, the decorator, whoever. The dress has a lace overlay with a metallic tinge to it, to give it an updated look without being too over the top. Both neckline and hem are scalloped, and there's a satin bow that ties at the waist. I pull it off the rack. Shit, I hate to use the word, but, okay, they'll look _adorable_ in this dress, all three of them. And Justin can match his cummerbund and tie to the rose color without looking like a total dork. "This is the one you want," I say as I show it to them.  
  
The cream puffs gape along with Daphne. "It's … pretty," she says cautiously, glancing at the three girls as she waits for their reactions. "So, you think … rose works, for spring?"  
  
I make an aggravated noise. "Are you kidding me? Both the style of dress and the color are perfect." I give them my best sales pitch, explaining how fucking amazing they're going to look in this dress, three beauties who will imprint the ensemble with their own unique personality and look, a cohesive whole yet distinctively different. I even get a little poetic when I describe the rose color, which is found so prominently in wonderful things like sunsets, flowers, even lips. Sometimes I amaze myself. By the time I'm finished, they're sold, looking from me to the dress and back again like I've become their life coach.  
  
"One of us should try it on," says the redhead, batting her eyelashes at me.  
  
I check the label. "It's a petite, size zero," I say and hand it over to Miss Asia. "Go for it."  
  
She stares at me a moment longer. "Will you be at the wedding?" A little smile plays on her face as she clutches the dress to her chest.  
  
Fuck, I never thought about that. Weddings are something I just don't do, but in this case … "Yeah, I'll be there," I say and all three girls sigh in unison. Shit, what have I gotten myself into? Do I need more teenage stalkers? "Okay, I'm out of here. Come on, Justin." I turn on my heel and head for the door feeling kind of, I don't know, like I've gone soft or something. First Brendan, now this? Shit.  
  
"Brian!"  
  
I've just opened the door when Daphne makes it to my side. She grins up at me, and then rises up on her toes to peck me on the cheek. "Thank you. You're the best."  
  
I manage a halfway decent smile. "Any time, darling."  
  
Then I'm off, stalking toward the parking area, Justin in hot pursuit.  
  
"What're we going to do tonight?" he asks breathlessly as we walk.  
  
I give him my best glare. "Something that won't make my dick soft."  
  
Justin favors me with a huge grin. "I have some ideas about that. Wanna hear?"  
  
"I'll bet you do," I say and throw my arm around his shoulders. "Yeah, tell me. And take it nice and slow while you do."


	13. Chapter 13

  
Author's notes:

In this crazy, post-bashing world of medications, doctor visits, and strange acronyms like “PTSD,” does Brian have time to get acquainted with a guy who claims to be his _identical twin brother_? Can that really be true? His father was duped, his mother lied, and there are _two_ of him?

***

If you are enjoying this fic, would you please comment so I know I should update more frequently? Thanks! 

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[ ](http://photobucket.com)

 

~ 13 ~  
  
_God, I love him. He's so wonderful and it's a hell of a lot more than just a physical attraction because his real beauty is inside._  
  
I make it to Aperture a few minutes before six, surprised by the number of people who've turned out to see Jackson Wallick. As I squeeze through the crowd, trying to get somewhere close to the tiny platform that's set up at one end of the bookstore, I'm glad I decided to do this. Not that Brian's going to be gushing with thankfulness when he finds out I didn't go to Wallick's lecture at Carnegie-Mellon. By now, even I know that kind of heartfelt gratitude is not possible, not for Brian. Still, after I'd given it some thought, it seemed clear to me that Brian didn't want to attend the lecture because he was concerned about being seen with me. He's just taken that step of acknowledging and interacting with me, but that's a far cry from introducing me to his family—which he hinted he might do one of these days. Brian's all about control so when I put two and two together, I knew it'd be a disaster for us to be spotted together at such a public event. I mean, Carnegie-Mellon is his alma mater. He probably knows a lot of people there, and he's not a low-profile kind of guy, is he? He's successful, he gets around, and he's well known. So, he'd be noticed. After that, I realized that even going alone was risky given the fact that I look so much like him. That's when I knew I had better not go at all. Why upset Brian needlessly?   
  
Luckily, someone in the photographers' e-mail group I belong to mentioned that Wallick would make an appearance at Aperture, a Pittsburgh bookstore that's nowhere near Carnegie-Mellon, and nowhere close to Brian's neighborhood either. So, I decided it'd be safe to hear what he has to say in a place that was much less risky for either Brian or me. Of course, the lecture at C-M is at 7:30, so Wallick doesn't have a lot of time to spend at a small bookstore talking to a few dozen people, but I bought a copy of his latest book, I'll get him to sign it, and then feel like an adult again where he's concerned.   
  
I've come straight from work, and, yeah, _work_ is the operative word. Mo Minnehan took me on as a freelancer and right away threw so many assignments at me I almost couldn't keep up. I spent the day running around town shooting a shit-load of film and getting to know some of the _Times_ reporters as I did. Very hectic, but also very satisfying. And I owe it all to Brian. Well, maybe not _all_ since I was the one in Minnehan's office dazzling him with my _vast_ expertise and scintillating charm. But Brian definitely helped and, fuck, I have a warm spot in my heart for the big guy already. Another reason not to piss him off.  
  
Wallick appears right on the dot at six. A small man with a sour expression and not much hair, he speaks in a clipped Bostonian accent and does a good thirty-minute talk about his experiences in Brazil, Iraq, China, Namibia, and a few other places. Shit, is there somewhere he _hasn't_ been? The bookstore is so quiet I can hear the faint huffing sound a guy on the other side of the room makes as he breathes. People hang on the man's every word and I wonder what it would be like to be him. I'm not sure, though, that I'm cut out for that kind of life. I'd be running in the other direction if people were that intent on talking to me. And, shit, if they were ohhhing and ahhhing over my work? I'd be doubting every single shot I took.  
  
Soon enough, Wallick finishes up to a hearty round of applause, and people start having him sign their books. I have mine in hand so I move closer, behind a couple of other people, because no one has organized us into any kind of a line. I'm not paying attention to much of anything except straining to hear what Wallick's saying to one of the women he's talking to up ahead, when, out of nowhere, I get this feeling that someone's watching me. Stretching my neck right to left like I'm trying to work out the kinks, I take a casual look around. And I see him. To my left. A guy who doesn't even bother to look away when my gaze stops on him. A well-built guy who I'm sure Brian would call hot. A hunk who's checking me out for all he's worth.  
  
Even though I told Brian I was bi-sexual, I don't do gay scenes—bars, nightclubs, and bathhouses. I don't cruise other men. Fuck, I barely cruise _women_ because I'm Brian's exact opposite, a shy, geeky guy who just stands around with an idiotic smile on his face hoping he isn't making a fool of himself. And God only knows, I have no interest in getting into another long-term relationship with a man. Hell, no. That's the last thing in the world I need right now. So, I stand there with my eyes fixed on Wallick and hope the guy will get the message. I don't have "gaydar" but I sure as shit know when someone's taking an interest in me.  
  
The guy doesn't get the hint, though. Not even five minutes later, he's there by my side, and that's when I realize how wrong I was about the whole thing, how tragically wrong, how I should've gotten a clue and left the place while I had a chance. "Brian?" he says in a soft voice as he stands there.  
  
I freeze. Oh, shit! He thinks I'm Brian, but, fuck, I can't act like Brian—not if my life depended on it. Yet, to admit that I'm _not_ Brian brings on the very problem I was trying to avoid by coming over here in the first place. Nor can I stand here like a complete fool and remain mute. "No," I finally say, keeping my expression as bland as possible, fidgeting with some coins in my coat pocket as I struggle to appear nonchalant, "you must, uhm, have me mistaken for … someone else."  
  
The guy looks me full in the face. He's wearing wire-rimmed glasses and has an interesting, intelligent face, the expression in his eyes telling me he's not buying what I'm saying. "My God," he says, and looks as surprised as he sounds. "You aren't Brian, are you? But you're sure as hell related to him."  
  
"They say … everyone, uh, has a-a double." I'm getting desperate, wondering if I can back away from him and run out the door. I _cannot_ be responsible for Brian being outed like this.  
  
The man gives his head a gentle shake and smiles at me with quiet bemusement, his eyebrows raised. "No way, my friend. You are the spitting image of Brian Kinney and something tells me you know exactly who I'm talking about." He holds out a hand. "My name's Bruckner, Ben Bruckner." He laughs and tilts his head a little to one side, pressing his lips together in a rueful smile. "It looks to me like fate, my friend, has intervened."  
  
I take his hand and find his grip firm, his eye contact steady. Fuck. I am so screwed and I was trying to do the right thing. "Brendan Connelly," I say as we shake. "And, yeah, umm, you're right—I do, uh, know who you're talking about."   
  
Ben nods in a matter of fact way, then points to Wallick. "Better get that book signed. He'll need to leave soon."  
  
"Oh?" I say, brilliant repartee my specialty.  
  
"Yeah. And before he does, maybe you'll tell me who you are."  
  
My gaze slips from his.   
  
_Shit_.  
  
***  
  
We're having a quiet evening at home, but I don't mention that to Brian because if I do he'll be freaked and want to head to Babylon. Something in him just hates anything that seems to say "domesticity." Maybe how he was raised? Or his whole rebellion thing? Not sure, but I am not about to jinx the night by saying some stupid shit, which also means I better keep my mouth shut about Dad. I've been looking for a good moment to broach the subject so I can test the waters. I'm not sure why. It isn't like I think Brian's going to be happy about anything that has to do with my father. He hates him and I can't blame him for that. Still, I was hoping I could ease my way into the subject, prime Brian for the big reveal when I tell him what's happening with Dad and me. I really need to do that, _soon_. Dad's been reading PFLAG's website and literature—which I find unbelievable—and we talk at least twice every week. He's even found a forum online for parents who have a GLBT son or daughter, parents still struggling with the whole issue. I'd have to say I'm a little impressed.  
  
Right now, though, I think it's time to behave like the gay boy my dad is finally starting to see that I am. I have this seriously beautiful man sprawled on the couch, his legs spread wide, that bulge in his jeans very apparent even though all he's doing is reading some boring thing from work. How is it that one man can be so compelling? _I'm_ getting hard just sitting here on the floor in front of him trying to finish an assignment for class. Fuck, I just want to ravish Brian, to throw myself against him and kiss those perfect lips until he moans and groans and begs me to fuck him. Okay, that's not going to happen, but, shit, what a great fantasy it is. I use it all the time when Brian's not around and I jerk off. Now, though, since he's supposed to be working, I think the stealth approach might better suit the current situation.   
  
Laying aside the pencil I've been using, I make a tiny hiss of frustration, and begin to massage my hand. I'm careful to _not_ look up or otherwise indicate that I'm even aware Brian's in the room. Lower lip caught between my teeth, I do it for over a minute while I wait to see if the ruse will work. I've been pretty good about not using this one unless—  
  
"Is it bothering you?" Brian says, and I look up to see the spark of concern in his eyes.  
  
Okay, I'm not going to feel guilty because in ten minutes he'll be fucking me and he's wanted to do that all night. "Yeah, just a little." I say and give him my best big-eyed look of distress. "It never fails. I wish I could—"  
  
He beckons to me. "Come here."  
  
_Yes, sir_ , I think as I scoot closer and position myself between his legs, inhaling his unique Brian-scent, which is a musky, smoky mixture with just a hint of something sweet in it. Now my cock is really happy, but I hope he's not looking in that direction. "Thanks," I say with a smile, moving even closer so he doesn't have to lean forward. My arm is resting on his thigh, close to my primary target, but I pretend I don't notice.   
  
Yeah, fat chance of that happening.  
  
Brian massages my hand, his strong fingers kneading gently, his touch just turning me on more. God, I love him. He's so wonderful and it's a hell of a lot more than just a physical attraction because his _real_ beauty is inside. Like this. He does it all the time but no one knows about it except him and me. He's like that all over the place too, with friends and family alike. For instance, he spent an hour on the phone with fuckin' Claire the other night, helping her find a lawyer so she can deal with some issues her ex has raised. Why he'd do that I don't have a clue since she treats him like shit.  
  
"Hmm, that feels good," I whisper, and let my arm brush against his dick.  
  
Brian's eyes narrow just slightly, and he looks like he might be hiding a smile. "Feeling better?" he asks in a sweet voice as he continues to rub my hand.  
  
"Yeah, a lot better." Without breaking contact, I shift around until I'm on my knees and rise up so that I can put my other hand around his neck. Drawing him to me, I kiss him with firm intent, not even bothering with one of those tentative is-this-all-right? kisses because my arm next to his cock is being nudged. He tastes like the ginger and soy sauce from our dinner, and my dick is even happy about _that_.  
  
"You are a very bad boy," Brian murmurs against my mouth when I break the kiss.  
  
"Am I?" I widen my eyes as I look at him, but slip my hand down to unbutton his jeans. "I feel like a very horny boy."  
  
"I'm trying to work."  
  
He doesn't sound serious so I kiss him again, my tongue exploring his mouth as I push my way in further and further. I pull down his zipper and manage to free his dick. "Oh, look what I found!" I say to him, my eyes large like I'm the most surprised person in the room. With great care, I stroke it one-handed, running my thumb across the head, greeting it like the old friend it is.  
  
With a growl, he grabs me, pulling me up onto him. We wrestle then, kissing as we fall onto the couch, wrapping arms and legs around each other and almost falling _off_ the couch a couple of times. Brian's papers scatter everywhere, but he ignores that, pulling down my pants to fist my cock until I'm groaning at every stroke. "Okay, I'm sorry!" I say to him in my most pitiful voice. "Don't torture me!"  
  
"You big fake! You started this, now you're going to finish it!"  
  
"That sounds like fun!"  
  
He whacks me on the ass so I stick it out further hoping for more "punishment." If I can just get him worked up a little more he might—  
  
Someone is suddenly pounding on the loft door so loudly I'm sure you could hear the racket on the street.  
  
"What the fuck?" Brian looks over his shoulder.  
  
"Oh, just let them knock. Don't answer it," I beg him. Shit, me and my aching cock _both_ beg him.  
  
Brian is already pulling away. What the fuck is it with him? He feels like he _has_ to answer the door every time someone knocks? I've never understood that. "Would you—"  
  
"Pull up your pants," Brian says with a smile as he stands. He rearranges his jeans, zipping and buttoning. "Round two will have to wait."  
  
"Fuck!" I get up off the couch and do as he says, pushing my hair into place as I watch him saunter across the room. This is so frustrating. I _had_ him, I really had him right where I wanted him, and then this. I grind my teeth in frustration just as Brian pulls open the door.  
  
"Mikey, what're you—"  
  
"You have a _brother_?" Michael cries as he pushes his way into the place. "You fucking have a _brother_ and you didn't think it was important enough to tell me?"  
  
Shit! I walk a little closer intent on, I don't know, protecting Brian from Michael's over the top rage. And how the hell does he know about Brendan? Then I stop. Like Brian couldn't pound the asshole into the ground if he wanted to?   
  
"I can't believe it! I just fucking can't believe it! As if this day wasn't shitty enough, now this!" Michael says as he watches Brian calmly close the door, his face flushed with anger. "What were you planning on doing, using him to fill in for you whenever you were tired of us? Dress him up in your clothes and send him to Babylon to hang out with us and no one would be the wiser?"  
  
I bite my lower lip to keep myself from speaking, then wince at the pain.  
  
"How did you—" Brian begins.  
  
"Ben! Fucking _Ben_ found him over at that bookstore on Greenleaf Avenue! I don't remember the name, but—"  
  
"Aperture," Brian tells him.  
  
"Who the fuck cares!"   
  
Michael makes wild gestures as he walks around, his eyes bugged out, thoroughly unpleasant. If I did something like that, Brian would be all over me, but for whatever reason he is tolerant of Mikey when he's freaking out, like he's an annoying little brother who would— But my thought stops right there. _Little brother_. Oh, shit. And now the _real_ "little brother" has shown up to take his rightful place? Okay, the picture is starting to come clear.  
  
"Your-your _relative_ is standing there, big as life. Ben says he couldn't miss him. He thought he was you!" Michael stomps closer to Brian. "He's your fucking identical twin brother? You found out you had an identical twin brother and you didn't think that was interesting enough to share with me? With any of us?"  
  
"It's only been a few weeks, Michael, and—"  
  
"And _what_? You needed time to get your family photos developed? You had to pick out your matching outfits? What the fuck is more important than sharing the news with your family?" Michael looks suddenly grim. "Or is that it? Now that you've got real family we're no longer important?"  
  
"Oh, shit!" I say before I can stop myself. My hands curl into fists as I go closer but I stay far enough away that I can't take a swing at him. "You're way out of line, Michael. Brian just needed time to—"  
  
Michael swings from Brian to me, hand out as he points. "So _he_ knew? The Boy Wonder knew about this amazing turn of events, but not me? Not Ma? Not any of your real friends?"  
  
"Fuck you!" I say at his underhanded remark. "What do you think I am, his fuck buddy?"  
  
He glares at me. "Yeah, his live-in fuck buddy."  
  
"Go to fucking hell! I don't give a shit what you—"  
  
Then the phone rings.  
  
"Answer it," Brian says to me immediately.  
  
"Yes, I knew all about his brother." I fling the words at Michael as I head toward the desk. "Given your reaction, it makes perfect sense that I would and you wouldn't!" I grab the phone. "Hello?"  
  
"Justin?"  
  
It's Brendan.  
  
"Hi."  
  
"Is Brian there?" He sounds anxious. "I need to talk to him."  
  
I watch Brian and Michael move further into the room, arguing all the way. "I'm gonna take a wild guess here, Brendan. You're calling about a guy who saw you at a bookstore? Big, buff guy wearing glasses who realized you weren't Brian?"  
  
He groans. "Shit! It's gotten back to Brian already? That's was only thirty minutes ago. I would've called sooner, but my cell phone wasn't charged."  
  
"Yeah, the Novotny grapevine operates almost as fast as the Internet."  
  
"The what?"  
  
"Never mind. It's just weird that he was at the same bookstore with you."  
  
"Not as much as I thought at first," Brendan says and then he sighs. "He's on Carnegie-Mellon's Visiting Artist's committee. He was subbing for another guy who had to pick up Wallick and bring him to the lecture."  
  
"Wow, bad luck," I tell him with real sympathy. Shit, I know all about being in the wrong place at the wrong time. "Uh, look, Brian's talking to that guy's boyfriend … who happens to be Brian's best friend."  
  
Brendan groans even louder. "Oh, fuck! I can't believe I ran into someone who's that close to Brian! I went out of my way to—"  
  
"I'll tell him, Brendan," I say when I hear the noise level behind me rise again. "Right now, I better get back to my referee job before Brian kills someone."  
  
"Fuck." Brendan sounds very depressed. "Okay. Tell him I'm sorry."  
  
"You didn't do anything," I say just before I hang up. Turning around, I see them standing by the stainless steel counter, still in the middle of a heated discussion. Fucking Michael. Why the hell does he think he's in charge of Brian's life?   
  
"I still believe that's a really fucked up way to treat your friends," Michael says, the anger distorting his face. He crosses his arms over his chest. "So now, we have to meet him."  
  
"Who the hell do you think you are, ordering me around?" Brian shoots back. Propped against the counter, he's smoking a cigarette, looking none too happy. "You can meet him when I'm good and ready for you to meet him."  
  
"Which will be _this_ Thursday."  
  
"This Thursday is Thanksgiving. If you think I'm bringing him into a family dinner where—"  
  
"That's exactly what you're doing—you're bringing him to Thanksgiving dinner." Michael pushes his lips together in a stubborn, straight line. "Ma says so."  
  
"You told Debbie?" Brian asks in horror.  
  
"She was standing right there when Ben called! Of course I fucking _had_ to tell her and can you imagine _that_ conversation as I tried to defend you? Fat chance you care!"  
  
Shit! Debbie wants Brendan at Thanksgiving dinner? That is horribly bad news for Brian, but I ignore that as I walk closer. "Did you or Deb ever think that maybe Brian doesn't _want_ to invite him?" I ask Michael, my voice rising in challenge.  
  
"Fuck!" Brian says at the same moment. Grinding out his cigarette, he turns on his heel and goes upstairs into the bedroom. We listen as he crashes around for a minute, opening and closing the closet, slamming drawers. Then he's comes back. He's wearing a jacket, has his boots on, and is sticking his wallet into his back pocket.  
  
"Where are you going?" I ask him, but he breezes right past me and rolls open the loft door.  
  
"Out," he snaps, and slams the door behind him.   
  
For a moment, I'm so mad all I can do is stand there, hands clenched as I glare at Michael. He just can't ever let go, can he? Somehow, in his warped brain, he still thinks he and Brian are fourteen and doing their homework in his bedroom. That must've been where Michael appointed himself Brian's guardian, a role he's never fucking given up. Usually, I try to be tolerant of this stupid shit, but now he's ruined what would've been a nice evening and I am pissed. "You need to stop this," I say to him without thinking about it. "What the fuck kind of way is that to be someone's friend? You come over here to yell at him because you're convinced he's done something wrong? Yet, you don't even give him a chance to explain? That's just fucked up, Michael—really fucked up!"  
  
Michael makes a sound as if to dismiss me. "Who gives a fuck what you think? You'll be out of here soon enough and then—"  
  
"What the hell does that mean? I'm not going anywhere!"  
  
"Sure you are." He waves a hand as if I'm inconsequential. "You're temporary and soon you'll be gone. Then I won't have to put up with your shit."  
  
Outraged, I get up into his face. "You're going to be surprised at how long I'm around," I say to him, so close we'd be kissing if we were any closer. "Brian and I are …" But, shit, how can I characterize us? Things have been nice the last week or two, but we're hardly a couple—not as long as Brian sticks with his ridiculous notions about love being something he doesn't do. The truth is, we're not really anything. I swallow, steeling my expression so that Michael can't see what I'm thinking. "Our relationship is going in a good direction," I say with as much conviction as I can muster.  
  
Michael hoots. "Oh, sure! And Brian's probably going to pop the question soon, right? Can't wait for my invitation to your wedding. " He laughs in that particularly annoying way he has. " Let's face it, Justin, Brian is never going to change, and you know that."  
  
I hold up both hands to encompass the entire loft. "Then why the hell am I here, Michael?"  
  
Michael shrugs, a look on his face like he could care less about anything that has to do with me. "Maybe because you got bashed in the head and he feels guilty?"  
  
And that … well, it hits me hard, right in the face like he fuckin' slapped me. For a moment, all I can do is stare. _Fuck him. Shit, just fuck him_! I take a shaky step back. "Go to hell," I say, and turn, going back to my drawing stuff, the sudden lump in my throat making it hard for me to say anything else.  
  
"Oh, fuck, I didn't mean it that way! I told you, I'm having a hard day!" Michael says to my back although, yeah, that's exactly what he meant.  
  
I sit down on the floor and pick up my drawing pad, gripping it so tightly I'm afraid my hand might spasm. I examine the picture I was drawing of Brian. All I can do is stare at it, blocking out anything else Michael might be saying until I hear the door open and close and I know he's left.   
  
He's right, isn't he? That's my main thought. Michael is right. I'm only here because of the bashing—that's why Brian took me in, that's the arrangement he made with Mom. Why the hell do I think it's more? Why have I gotten my hopes up that we'll be a real couple?   
  
That's not going to happen.  
  
That'll probably never happen.


	14. Chapter 14

  
Author's notes: In this crazy, post-bashing world of medications, doctor visits, and strange acronyms like “PTSD,” does Brian have time to get acquainted with a guy who claims to be his _identical twin brother_? Can that really be true? His father was duped, his mother lied, and there are _two_ of him?  


* * *

[ ](http://photobucket.com)

~ 14 ~  
  
_Shit! What the hell is going on with these people?_  
  
By the time Justin knocks on the door, I'm ready. At least I think I am. I open the door and he smiles, but something's a little off—I see that right away. Justin's not good at concealing his emotions while Brian, of course, is _too_ good. Shit, this must be related to the whole Thanksgiving thing we're about to do. I kept telling Brian it was okay, we didn't have to do it, I was happy to sit home and eat a pizza while I watched the game, but he fuckin' kept telling me no, it had to be done. It's like we're _commanded_ to appear and I'm not sure I like the sound of that, at all. I mean, aren't these people Brian's friends and family?   
  
"You look great." Justin eyes the deep blue cardigan zip-up I'm wearing. Dad gave it to me for Christmas last year. Not Ralph Lauren, but it's fairly decent. His eyes drop to my high-tops. "Trying to make sure they don't get you two mixed up?"  
  
That makes me laugh. "Yeah, I guess I am." I didn't shave either. I know how Brian is by now and even when he's dressed casually, he looks pulled together and polished. I'm looking a little scruffier. "Do you think it's all right? I wasn't sure how casual I should be." Now I'm anxious about the jeans, the tee shirt underneath the sweater, the whole laid back ambience. Maybe I should've worn something a little more—  
  
"No, you look great. Come on, before Brian drives off without us."  
  
I can imagine him doing that, so I close and lock the door, and follow Justin around to the front parking lot where Brian's waiting in the Jeep. One look at his face as we approach and my doubts are back. "Is this really okay?" I ask Justin in a whisper. "He does not look happy."  
  
Justin follows my line of sight. "He just hates it when Debbie pulls rank on him, that's all."  
  
"This Debbie, she sounds like—"  
  
"I'm gonna tell you all about her." Justin opens the front door on the passenger side. "Get in."  
  
Yep, just like I thought. Brian looks great in a black, v-neck sweater, and jeans with a black leather jacket finishing off his version of Thanksgiving Day casual. I slide into the front seat. "Hi."  
  
Brian has sunglasses on, so I can't read his expression, but he gives me that half-smile, the one that says he's not in that great a mood. Oh, boy.   
  
We take off without another word, and Justin begins to give me the lay of the land, so to speak. He tells me, first of all, that the family already knows my history: Joan and Jack and the adoption, the rosary, how it came to a head when Brian tracked me down after he found the business card, all the pertinent details. And they've been asked not to dwell on that, to just move on. Because Brian doesn't want to discuss it? That crosses my mind, but I keep quiet because I know it's a sensitive subject, and, fuck, I don't mind that I won't have to repeat the same story ten times.   
  
Then, with Brian occasionally amending what he's saying, Justin tells me about the people I'll meet. Being Justin, he prefaces the whole thing with the observation that he started his relationship with each one of these people as an outsider, a "teenage stalker," which makes Brian snort. Now, though, he's managed to work his way into the heart of the family … which isn't what he says, but I'm sure it's true. Anyway, while this is going on, I feel like I ought to be taking notes. It does seem like Brian is attempting to manage the whole thing after the fact, and now I'm learning my role in the drama. Yeah, I apologized for what happened with Professor Bruckner, but Brian told me to shut the fuck up, that it wasn't my fault. So, as usual, I'm not sure what's going on, why he looks so pissed off, why Justin seems off his game, none of it. But by the time we pull up to the little house where Debbie Novotny lives, I've had a crash course in Brian Kinney's friends and family. And I'm scared to death that there will be a pop quiz.  
  
At the door, Brian pauses to give me a smirk. "Don't look now, but I think Lindsay's peeking out the window," he murmurs with the first glimmer of humor he's shown. "You are this Thanksgiving's star guest."  
  
That makes me gulp, and I freeze as he knocks on the door. Shit, I don't want to be the star _anything_ especially in a place where I'm a stranger. A moment of panic engulfs me before I remember that I _am_ an adult … right? Justin squeezes my shoulder as the door opens.  
  
"Since when do you knock?" A redheaded woman stands there, her gaze moving swiftly from Brian to me. "Trying to be proper, huh?" Her eyes rakes over me. "Well, I'll be damned! I never thought I'd live to see the day—"   
  
"Deb …" Brian cocks an eyebrow.  
  
She gives him a hearty laugh and reaches up to pat his cheek, which astonishes me. So, there's one human who's not afraid of Brian? "Don't get your boxers in a knot." She chuckles and then turns to me. "Hi, Brendan, I'm Debbie. Come on in!"   
  
"Hi," I manage as she pulls me in after Brian. Luckily, Justin's right behind.  
  
"Sunshine," Debbie says in a warm voice and she plants a big kiss on his cheek, one that leaves lipstick she immediately begins to rub off.  
  
"Hi, Deb." Justin scrunches up his face like he's used to this behavior, and smiles at me.   
  
Right away, the aroma of roast turkey, sage dressing, lasagna, and red wine come to me, and my stomach rumbles. But the minute Justin's face has been cleaned, Debbie drags me around a couch and into a living room packed with people. Food is forgotten. Brian, I realize, is next to me, and, when I slip off my coat, he takes it and leaves me standing there, deer-in-the-headlights, while he hangs it up.   
  
"Everyone, this is Brendan Connelly, Brian's _brother_ ," Debbie announces in a loud voice, and I want to sink into the floor. "Brendan, this is Vic, my brother." She points to the man in the recliner who stands up to offer a hand.  
  
_Vic_ , I think, _the nice one, a good guy to talk to_. "Hi."  
  
"Lindsay and Mel," Debbie says before I can do more than shake Vic's hand.   
  
A pretty blonde and her dark-haired companion, who's also quite the looker, both rise. "It's so nice to meet you." Lindsay offers her hand, all smiles.  
  
_Brian's college friend, the mother of his child_ , I say to myself as I try to make order out of this onslaught. "Nice to meet you too."  
  
"Oh, fuck, you look just like him!" Mel gives her head a shake like maybe that's not such a great thing. "But I hear you're not quite the asshole—"  
  
"Mel!" Lindsay cuts in, but just then, everyone's attention is diverted by a small ball of chubbiness who comes toddling across the floor.  
  
"Dada!" the baby crows as he throws himself at Brian.   
  
"Hey, Sonny Boy." Brian bends down to retrieve Gus, swooping him up into his arms. "How you doing, big guy?"  
  
"Hey, Gus." With a smile, Justin leans forward to touch the baby's cheek.  
  
"Jus'n!" the little boy says with great excitement, and looks at his father for confirmation. "Jus'n!"  
  
"Yeah, it's Jus'n all right," Brian confirms, and I can see the love in his eyes as they rest on his son. He looks at me. "Meet your nephew. Gus, this is Brendan—can you say Brendan?"  
  
"'Den," the baby says gamely and claps his hands with glee when everyone applauds.   
  
"Good job, Gus!" Debbie moves on with me while Brian talks to his son. "This is Emmett, and Ted."  
  
_Emmett, the most obviously gay one in the whole bunch—lots of fun_. "Hi."  
  
He gaze roams unabashedly over me. "Oh, my. My, my, my. You do have the whole package, don't you? And, from what I've seen so far, none of the Brian Kinney snark!"  
  
"Ignore him. He's an idiot." Ted offers his hand.  
  
_Ted_ , I think, _the accountant, the everyman_. "Hi, nice to meet you." His handshake is firm, and he looks me in the eye. I like him right away.  
  
Debbie steers me around and I see Professor Bruckner standing with another man. "You know Ben," Debbie says with a little laugh, and nods towards the smaller, younger man next to him. "And this is my son, Michael."  
  
_Michael. Okay, the best friend. Brian's known him since high school, they're close, and there's something about him Justin doesn't like_. "Hi." I offer my hand.  
  
For a second, it looks like Michael is going to refuse to shake it, which makes me feel like I've already tripped up five minutes into this thing. "Hi," he says finally, and gives it to me, his grip firm, but the expression on his face … it seems strange.  
  
"We only started eating about twenty minutes ago, so Brian's fashionably late arrival is perfect." Debbie smirks at Brian. She's obviously the one in charge of this group and isn't about to take "no" for an answer, so I nod, overwhelmed by all the people and how they're staring at me like maybe I have three eyes.   
  
"My mom and sister will be along later, for dessert," Justin informs me, and I realize he's still by my side.  
  
"Oh, uhm … that sounds, uh, great." I've reverted to my true self, the speechless stumblebum, and don't protest when Debbie leads me into a kitchen whose counters are groaning under the weight of all the food piled there. The house is so small, she tells me, that they do a Thanksgiving buffet rather than a sit-down dinner, which is just fine with me. With Debbie's help, I soon have a plate with enough food to feed a small nation and have been allowed to leave without an escort. Behind me, I can hear Justin enthusiastically talking about the food as he scoops some of everything onto his plate, and I have to smile remembering how my dad used to complain about the grocery bill when I was a teenager.  
  
For a moment, I stand in the kitchen's entryway, taking in the activity in the living room. Brian is on the couch with the baby, grinning as he makes funny faces at him. Another side of my brother, and one I already love. Next to Brian, at a ninety-degree angle, Vic smiles at me as he chews something and I can tell he's about to say something when Lindsay jumps up. "Why don't you sit here?" She indicated her chair, which is next to Vic's , and she sounds kind of nervous or maybe excited. "I finished most of my dinner and—"  
  
"Oh, uh, no—no, I couldn't." Taking a seat from a woman still doesn't seem right even in this PC age. Instead, with a smile of thanks, I sit on the rug in front of her.  
  
"Then put your drink and plate up here, on this end table, if you need to." She sits back, all smiles as she looks down at me. Her blue eyes seem to twinkle and her hand brushes my shoulder in a way that's maybe too friendly, though I'm not sure.  
  
She's an attractive woman, but, God, help me, another blonde? After Kelly, the last thing I want is another fair-haired lover… but, shit, what am I thinking? She's a _lesbian_ , and already in a committed relationship, so it's not like we'll be dating anytime soon. Why do I feel like there's more to it than that? "Thank you," I say to her offer of table space.  
  
Her warm gaze never leaves my face. She frowns and looks concerned. "This must be overwhelming for you. Meeting Brian, Justin, and now all of us."  
  
"It's … a lot to, uh, take in, yeah." God, could I get more incoherent?   
  
Mel is in a hardback chair next to Lindsay and nods at my words like she's made a decision. "How refreshing is that? The guy isn't afraid to admit he's got weaknesses." She cuts a glare Brian's way. "So, identical twins can be _very_ different. I'm glad to hear that."  
  
Okay, already it's interesting. Brian was in college with Lindsay, yet now she has this gorgeous, but tough partner who dislikes Brian? Were Lindsay and Brian more than just friends back in those days? Did Brian get her pregnant the old-fashioned way? Maybe he has a touch of bi-sexuality? If that's true, it's something I'd definitely want to talk with him about. "Uh, well …" I refrain from saying anything by taking a bite of the stuffing, but it's right then that Gus decides to check me out.  
  
Wiggling out of his father's arms, he walks across to where I'm sitting. Quickly, I set the plate of food on the table behind me and give him a smile. "Hi, Gus." What a beautiful little boy. And he looks just like Brian. "You already have your Thanksgiving dinner?" I ask him, but he comes closer and puts out his arms. I know the baby sign all too well. The mothers called it "uppy-ups," and, yeah, it means he wants to be picked up. "Easy does it." I hoist him until he's snug against my chest, smoothing back his silky hair where it's fallen into his eyes.  
  
"Dada!" he says, and my mouth drops open as he pats my cheek.  
  
"No, Dada's over there." Quickly, I point at Brian.  
  
"Dada!" the baby chortles, making it very clear he's talking about me.  
  
"Ha!" Melanie speaks like she's just waiting to say her line, laughing with undisguised pleasure. "You better watch out, Brian! It looks like you can be replaced!"  
  
Mentally, I flinch. Damn, that's not a nice thing to say. What the hell is going on with her? Still hugging Gus, who's babbling something at me, I raise my eyes and see Michael standing in the entrance to the kitchen. His gaze is on me, his frown firmly in place. Even when I look straight at him, he doesn't look away. In fact, I think he's trying to communicate something and whatever it is, it isn't friendly.   
  
My attention is diverted as Brian gets up off the couch. Without a word, he heads for the kitchen, but once he's gone around Michael, who fails to stop him, he opens the refrigerator and takes out something. Justin speaks to him, but Brian doesn't answer. A moment later, he's gone out the back door.  
  
Michael, I realize, has narrowed his eyes and is glaring at me even harder.   
  
Emmett has two fingers flat against his mouth and looks worried.  
  
"Oh, fuck, Sunshine—leave the asshole alone!" I hear Debbie murmur in the kitchen. "You know goddamn well he's gonna do what he's gonna do!"  
  
I can feel my heart thumping in my chest. Shit! What the hell is going on with these people?  
  
***  
  
Things started out bad and are now headed toward disaster. I'm sure of that, very sure. Why should I be surprised? Even back in suburbia, when I was Justin Taylor, the nice white, Anglo-Saxon son of an upper middle class family, people went nuts during the holiday. My Aunt Donna locked herself in the bathroom one Thanksgiving after drinking too many martinis and wouldn't come out for three hours, crying and sobbing and talking about, freakin' Bob, her "lost love." Those of us under the age of ten thought it was hilariously funny.   
  
Okay, I understand that Deb, Linds, Emmett—all of them—have never met Brendan. It makes sense that they'd be intrigued by him, and would drool all over him the way they've been doing for several hours now. Fuck, they've been hanging on his every word, and if Linds gets any closer, she'll be sitting in his lap. Even fuckin' Michael seems to have decided Brendan is the best thing since sliced bread. And Gus? He fell asleep in Brendan's arms! It's fine that they like him and want to get to know him better, but do they have to do it at Brian's expense? That's the effect, of course, given the way they've been fawning over Brendan while ignoring Brian at the same time. And the horrible thing is, there's nothing I can do about it. Not a fucking thing. Normally, maybe I could. Normally, I might persuade Brian to stop drinking or take me home because my head hurts or even reason with him somehow.  
  
I can't do anything, though, because Brian is barely speaking to me. We had a fight two nights ago when Michael showed up screaming at Brian about his twin brother. After Brian stormed out of the loft, I sat on the floor for hours while I got more and more depressed. It was almost 4:00 a.m. before Brian returned, but by then, I was ready for him—oh, man, was I ever. He smelled of cigarette smoke, liquor, and jizz, a combination that made me angrier than I already was. Okay, I'll admit it. I went a little nuts. At the time, I thought my reaction was justified, but maybe it was over the top. I'm not sure. I just know I was sick and tired of trying to figure out my place in his life. The whole thing was wearing on me, especially the way he won't acknowledge that there even _is_ a relationship, won't admit that he loves me or that I'm special to him, that I'm something more than just a trick. Shit, he says we're two guys who fuck. Period. That really does wonders for my self-esteem.  
  
Finally, of course, I ended up asking him _why_ I was living with him. Was it like Michael said, because I was bashed? It was a stupid question because I knew as well as he knew that I was there because my mom asked Brian to help. And I was only supposed to be there until I got better. But, of course, I was really asking an entirely different question, wasn't I? I wanted to know if he cared. I wanted to hear him say he loved me and wanted me there with him, that it was important to him because _I_ was important to him.   
  
I don't know what the fuck I was thinking.   
  
Now, many hours into the Thanksgiving extravaganza that's Brendan's coming out party, things are deteriorating in every way possible and I'm starting to freak out because I can't stop it. Standing behind the couch where Brendan is now sitting, I'm listening to his conversation with Michael, who's suddenly become Brendan's new best friend. Brendan has no idea how dangerous it is to open up to Michael and I sure as shit can't tell him right now. It was weird how things changed between them. Michael was doing his best to hate Brendan for the same reason he's always hated me: I stood between him and Brian, which is something he cannot fuckin' stand. Then, at some point in the stiff, awkward conversation they were having awhile back, Brendan made a remark that seemed to change everything. He told Michael he envied him because Michael, and Michael alone, had spent so many years with Brian, and knew him better than anyone else. Somehow, that changed Michael's attitude. You could see it visibly, like someone had poured hot water over an iceberg.   
  
After that, they discovered that they both had a thing for comics and a big discussion got started, one still going on almost an hour later. For most of that discussion, Brian sat on the recliner drinking his fourth or fifth shot of bourbon, making spiteful comments as he did. Fuck, who could blame him? Before the comic book talkfest, Michael had been telling stories about how geeky Brian was in high school. That turned into a "I-knew-Brian-when" contest that included Lindsay's tales of his sexual conquests in college and Debbie's reminiscences of Brian-the-child while Ted and Melanie made malicious comments about all of it. Everyone seems to have a nasty Brian story to tell, even me, although I have the good sense to keep my mouth shut. And _I'm_ the kid? Yeah, I know Brian can be a dickhead and payback is hell, but this is not the place or the time.  
  
Finally, a few minutes ago, Brian got up and left … again. By now, he must have a pile of cigarette butts accumulated in the backyard since he's been out there so many times. I know he's just trying to get away from the unpleasant atmosphere and my heart aches for him, but, fuck, he'll bite off my head if I go anywhere near him.  
  
"No, no, lemme tell you the story," Michael says as he pats Brendan's knee. All the Chianti has obviously gone to his head. He leans a little closer. "Here's the story of how I got that comic I used for the down payment on my store. It'll tell you _a lot_ about your brother."  
  
Oh, God. So now, he's going to tell Brendan about his thirtieth birthday party? The one Brian threw for him? I feel myself tense up.  
  
"… so there I am, having a great time and David's there and it's all working out so perfectly, and then out of nowhere there's Tracy, my co-worker from the Big Q! The one who thinks I'm straight, who's got a crush on me."  
  
"Brian _invited_ her," Ted puts in, one eyebrow raised so Brendan doesn't miss the point. "Deliberately."  
  
Brendan looks like he wants to be in the backyard with Brian. "Why, uh, would he …?"  
  
"Because that's how he is!" Michael makes his point with a sweep of his hand to include everyone, implying that there's a consensus on this point. "No apologies, no regrets. That's how he lives his life."  
  
There was a little more to it than that. "Aren't you forgetting part of the story?" I manage to interject. "The part where Brian was trying to make sure you ended up with Dr. David rather than wait for—"  
  
"Fuck, Justin, do you _always_ have to interrupt me?" Michael turns around to give me a glare. "Age before beauty, okay? Can you just let me say my piece without stopping me ten-thousand times?"  
  
"I was just clarifying—"  
  
"That's how Brian is." Michael imparts his mystical wisdom of Brian to Brendan with a chuckle and a nod, but he's starting to slur his words. "He doesn't care what people think." He looks directly at Mel. "Like 'member that sexual harassment suit?" He pauses to drain the rest of the wine in his glass. "He fucked that guy in his office—one of his subordinates no less!—and then—" Michael turns his head as if to make sure Brian isn't in the room, standing somewhere behind him. "—the guy files suit against him." Laughing, Michael gives his head an amused shake. "Tha's what I love about Brian—he just doesn't fucking care even when what he's doing is really, really wrong."  
  
"Yeah, well his not caring almost got him kicked out on the street without a cent to his name," Melanie says, that vicious tone she likes to use when she's talking about Brian fully in play. "He keeps sticking his dick where it doesn't belong, and in that case, it almost ruined him."  
  
Across the room, Vic has his gaze fixed on me, and he's not happy either. Fuck, if only the rest of them had that much sense. Don't they know what a good friend Brian has been to them?  
  
"How about when he almost took the job in New York?" Lindsay tries to fill the room's silence, her voice a trifle sharp. "That one was so hard! I tried to talk him out of it, especially since he'd be moving away from his _son_ , but he said it was his big opportunity and he was going to go for it."  
  
"Hey!" Debbie chimes in from where she's sitting across from Michael and Brendan. "There could've been two of you in New York!"  
  
Brendan smiles at the idea, but doesn't speak.  
  
"Yeah, we _all_ tried to talk him out of that one." From his spot propped up on one elbow on the floor, Emmett flutters a hand in the air. "Then, after we'd struggled and struggled with it and finally come to accept that he'd be leaving us, he casually mentioned that he was not going because he didn't get the job! I think we all wanted to kill him!"  
  
"The asshole," Debbie murmurs, though she smiles when she says it like there's affection somewhere in those two words … an affection hard to find right now.  
  
"He jus' never learns." Michael sighs, the long-suffering friend, a posture that's such bullshit I want to smack him. "He's been that way as long as I—"  
  
"You're forgetting a few things, aren't you, Michael?" I lean down so I can look him in the eyes. "And even if you aren't, I think it's rotten that you're sitting here talking about Brian like this in front of his brother."  
  
"And then there's this one!" Michael pokes a finger at me so fast I have to jerk back. He gives a harsh laugh. "Probably the biggest mistake Brian ever made!"  
  
"Michael …" Debbie says, a warning in her voice.  
  
"No, no, Brendan wants to know about his brother, Ma, so why the fuck shouldn't I tell him? I mean, I know Brian better 'an anyone else—anyone!—so if he wants to know things, I'm the go-to guy. He ought to hear it all."  
  
"You _think_ you know him," I manage to say.  
  
"There he is one night, at Babylon with the rest of us," Michael goes on as if I don't exist. "And, as usual, he's got the run of the place. I mean, he can have any man in the joint, hands down." He shakes his head. "But he's bored—Brian is bored with all those gorgeous men and he's bored getting his dick sucked." He looks over at Emmett and Ted. "Remember? How we were waitin' for him outside Babylon like forever? Then he shows up and a moment later, he's zeroed in on this one." He hooks a thumb in my direction. "Pretty blond twink, "virgin" writt'n all over him, and Brian's just _got_ to have him."  
  
"That is not your business," I tell him, slamming my hand down on the back of the couch to emphasize the point because he's finally succeeded in pissing me off. "Who Brian chooses to pick up and what he does with them isn't your concern!"  
  
"Yes the fuck it is!" Michael retorts, twisting his head to glare at me. "Everything was fine before you came along! Then suddenly, everywhere we go, there you are, all cutesy and bubbly, trying your damnedest to get your claws in him. And fuckin' Brian keeps taking second helpings, then third 'n fourth 'n on into infinity because, I don't know, you spiked his drinks, maybe?"  
  
"Michael, enough!" Debbie's voice is suddenly stern. "Leave Sunshine alone."  
  
"No, Ma, _no_!" Michael sounds strong and sure of himself, and, yeah, very drunk. "I'm telling him the rest of it!" He jerks around to stare at me full on. "So, anyway, before any of us can stop it, the two of them are barreling headlong toward a fuckin' disaster, one that'll totally mess up Brian in a way he's never been messed up before, that'll hurt him and cause him so much fucking confusion and pain that he'll end up thinking somehow _he_ was responsible for what happened to you."  
  
"Michael, for God's sake, shut up!" Vic cuts his hand in a sharp silencing motion.  
  
"I won't shut up, Uncle Vic! It's the truth! Brian's wracked with guilt over what happened even though i's not his fault and i's all because Justin jus' couldn't butt out, couldn't leave us alone when we were—"  
  
"Why're you talking to Justin this way?" There's an angry light in Brendan's eyes as he asks Michael the question. "He's the one who got hurt, he's the one who had to bear the brunt of that tragedy. And how can you blame Brian? He's been taking care of Justin ever since."  
  
"Yeah, and i's turned him into something he never wanted to be, something he never _should_ be: a fuckin' pussy, a lesbian, a-a surrogate dada to someone he shouldn't have to care for in the first place! Justin should get a clue and get the fuck out of our lives so things can get back to normal and—"  
  
"What a horrible thing to say!" Brendan sounds disturbed. "I don't think Brian would go along with that idea at all! He cares for Justin and—"  
  
"Shut up! Just shut the fuck up!"  
  
Everyone gasps.   
  
Oh, God.  
  
Brian is standing in the kitchen's entryway, swaying slightly as he glares at all of us. "I don't fucking need you defending me," he says, his teeth clenched as he glares at Brendan. "Just stay the fuck out of my business!"  
  
"I was only—"  
  
"I know what you're doing! It's apparent what _all_ of you are doing!" He takes a ragged look around at all of us, me included. "And if you think I fucking give a shit, then you don't know me as well as you think you do because I don't give a good goddamn about any of you or your opinion of me! You can all go to fucking hell as far as I'm concerned!" He takes a few steps forward, grabs his jacket off the coat rack, and is out the door before I can even register the movement.  
  
"Brian!" I follow, running when I hit the front porch because Brian's almost made it to the Jeep. "Don't go! Brian, stop!"  
  
He unlocks the door, but whirls around to confront me when I make it to his side. "Get the fuck away, Justin! Just leave me alone! For once in your miserable life, will you just leave me alone?"  
  
"I'm sorry, Brian—sorry for all of it. Everything they're saying is lousy and I—"  
  
"Are you listening to me, at all?" He's yelling like a crazy man. "I said get the fuck away! I've had it up to here with you and Brendan and the whole moronic emotional bullshit! Leave me the fuck alone!"  
  
"You just feel exposed because you opened up and—"  
  
With a huge intake of air, he backs up, his eyes widening, hands raised like he thinks he'll be hit. Then I realize something. No, that's wrong. That's really not it. The horror on his face tells me otherwise.  
  
He's afraid he'll _do_ the hitting.   
  
"Brian …" I hold out my hand to give him a lifeline, to help him, to bring him back to me somehow.  
  
His eyes glittering, Brian shakes his head, jerks open the car door, and slides inside. Without another glance at me, he starts the Jeep, and peels away from the curb, going from zero to forty in the space of a few seconds.  
  
With a squeal of tires, the Jeep turns the corner at the end of the block.  
  
Then Brian is gone.


	15. Chapter 15

  
Author's notes: In this crazy, post-bashing world of medications, doctor visits, and strange acronyms like “PTSD,” does Brian have time to get acquainted with a guy who claims to be his _identical twin brother_? Can that really be true? His father was duped, his mother lied, and there are _two_ of him?  


* * *

[ ](http://photobucket.com)

 

~ 15 ~  
_I hate the people who did this to him, who hurt him so bad he's afraid to love anyone._  
It doesn't matter.   
  
Fuck, no. Nothing matters, really, nothing at all. Maybe Gus. Okay, yeah, Gus matters, but he's just a baby and besides, I gave up all my rights to him, didn't I? Who am I to say he matters after doing something like that? When I did it, I might as well have slapped him in the face and told him I didn't care.  
  
I almost slapped someone tonight, didn't I? Justin. Fuck, I could feel the muscles in my arm tighten, could feel the upward motion that would bring my arm into position, could almost hear the loud thwack my hand would make when it hit the side of his face.  
  
The thing is, that can't happen. Ever. Not with anyone, but, fuck, especially not with Justin. How can I hit him? How can I even think about hitting him? Haven't I done enough already? I've practically ruined his life. But, wait, there's no "practically," is there? Who the fuck am I kidding? I _ruined_ his life. Period. I took a sweet, trusting kid and fucked him, literally and figuratively. It wasn't like I couldn't tell he was just a kid and a virgin to boot. I knew that. Fuck, that was the thrill. But I couldn't be bothered to have a thought—just one lousy thought—of what it'd do to him in the long run. Hell no, not me, not Brian Kinney. "No apologies, no regrets," right? That's how I live my life. So, if a sweet kid gets hit in the head and bleeds out all over the cement, well, tough, just tough. Not my problem. Not my fault.   
  
Even if he's someone I'd lay down my life for.   
  
In a fuckin' heartbeat.  
  
But yeah, right, _not my fault._ Go on. Fool yourself some more. And what she did—Mom, Joanie, the biggest fucking liar on the planet—that's not my fault either. I didn't do it, so why do I feel guilty about any of it? It's not my fault, and it's not Brendan's fault, but right now? Well, hell, he has to go because I can't do this, I fucking cannot do this for one minute more. Yeah, call me a pussy, call me anything, but as of this moment, I'm buggin' out of the whole experience. I can't make him leave, and I can't control what happens with him, but I sure as shit can control my own actions, and one of those fucking actions is going to be that I cut him out of my life. Completely. Which is what I should've done in the first place. What was I thinking, dressing him for a job interview and encouraging him to settle down and be my cute little brother? What did I think would happen then? We'd have nice little weekly dinners and Justin would make a delicious Chicken Cordon Bleu while we laughed over a good bottle of Sauvignon Blanc? Talk about lesbionic bullshit. Fuck that, fuck all of it! I don't do relatives. Didn't I already learn that? Weren't Pop, Claire, and the late Mrs.-Lie-Your-Way-Through-Life enough? Didn't I see firsthand what a disaster people like that could be, people who claim they love you because they're family, because that's how it's supposed to be? Yeah, _love_ you. Just like your friends love you.  
  
I close my eyes. Tightly.  
  
"Kinney?"  
  
Raising my head, I stare at the bartender. Billy, right? No, Bob. Billy or Bob or fuckin' Fred. What does it matter? "Yeah, give me another."  
  
Fred cocks an eyebrow although it only goes up about a quarter of an inch. "I was thinking you might want me to call you a cab."  
  
"I've been called worse," I come back at him, ready to challenge his notion that I can't hold my liquor. I can and I have and, fuck, I will continue to no matter how late it gets. I give him my best level gaze. "Now give me another."  
  
He backs off and a moment later sets down another shot of JB, which I quickly throw back, the liquor burning my throat as it slides down. Fuck him. Fuck them all. I have to be one of Babylon's best customers and this is how I'm treated? _Let me call you a cab, you big loser._ Shit! It's Thanksgiving Day, isn't it? Or was just a few hours ago. Fuck it, he can be thankful for _me_ and the business I bring to this place.  
  
I turn around and lean against the bar to watch the action, the thumping music pressing at me from all sides as I stare at the sweaty bodies gyrating on the dance floor. Letting my gaze roam from man to man, I make an assessment. Fuck, there's not one potential candidate out there. I found two earlier and spent some quality time with each one, but it's been awhile and I'm thinking too much and that's never a good sign. I need to get lost again, lost inside someone's hot, tight body where nothing exists except the intense pleasure as I work my way closer to that tumble into sweet oblivion.  
  
That's all I want now. To forget. To not think. To just stop being me and be someone who fucking doesn't give a damn what his so-called friends say. And I don't. I don't give a damn. I don't care what they say or do or feel about me. Not them, not anyone. There's plenty of booze, and willing men, enough to keep me busy for a long, long time. Between that and my work, I'm fine—I'm really fine. I did it before, I'll do it again. I got along great all those years. Before Justin, before Brendan, before any of that bullshit. So, fuck'em—fuck'em all.   
  
Right then, though, I realize there's one problem with that. One tiny little problem and it's not Justin and it's not Brendan and it's not Deb, Michael, any of them. It's the fucking dreams. I can control my waking hours, but those dreams follow me into my sleep and keep me from getting the rest I need. Yeah, I've got to have rest, especially the way Marty's been piling on the work lately. It's because he says I'm so brilliant, but whatever bullshit he wants me to believe, I still need a few hours sleep. Yet, as soon as I'm under, it seems like the dreams assault me. Which isn't fair. There ought to be at least one place I can go to get some peace, right? Why the fuck do I have to deal with all this shit 24/7? Don't I ever get a fuckin' break?  
  
But wait …  
  
I don't, do I? Deserve a break. I'm sure that's been firmly established at some point in my life, right? I may walk around like I think I'm something special and deserve all the nice clothes, big bucks, and willing asses, but let's not lose sight of the truth, a truth only I know, a truth I never share with anyone no matter how hot he is. I don't deserve anything. I'm nothing. Didn't Pop teach me that? I'm nothing and I don't deserve shit. And all of this? The expensive accoutrements, the high-priced job, the hot guys willing to suck my dick at the drop of a hat? Meaningless. Fuckin' nothing into nothingness and I've been here before and I know these thoughts and I can't believe I've forgotten them, that I've let myself be fooled by the idiotic, happy-camper, touchy-feelers who fuckin' try to give meaning to life. What the hell is wrong with me? Why do I keep on caring, keep on thinking there's more to being alive than this? I know there isn't. I know not to care. I know all of it.  
  
But I've lost my train of thought because I'm trying to fix a problem and this bullshit is getting me off-track. The _dream_ , that's the focus. Fix the fuckin' dream. Just last night, well before the whole Thanksgiving mess, I woke up after a particularly intense version of it. I can't imagine how Justin slept through it, but he did, and there I was, lying in bed trying to get my breathing under control, sweating like I'd just run a marathon. Except I hadn't. I'd been watching the rosary turn into a bunch of blood red roses. Brendan held them out to me like he always does in the dream, but the odd thing was, I didn't grab them this time. Can you learn in your dreams? Had I caught onto the fact that if I grabbed them, I'd get pierced by the thorns, that the cuts on my hand would bleed, that I'd be even more freaked out? So I wouldn't take the roses when he offered them, but … God, dreams are so weird. When I didn't take the roses, _Brendan_ tightened his hand around them or something—I don't know what the fuck he did—and _his_ hand began to bleed, copiously.   
  
Fucked up. So fucked up.  
  
"Hey."  
  
There's a guy next to me, giving me the look, eye-fucking me already. Tall, well cut auburn hair, green eyes, nice upper body, everything south of his waistline encased in leather. I even catch a whiff of aftershave, something with citrus undertones. And, yeah, quite a package down there, his sizeable cock outlined against the black leather. _Okay, round three_ , I think, and raise my head to give him a smile when a thought slams into me.  
  
The _rosary_. That's the problem. The fucking rosary. It started all of this, didn't it? I found it and the business card, I acted on it, and I ended up in a world of hurt. It was all because of the rosary. And Brendan, of course, fucking Brendan who's now going to be Debbie's favorite pet and Michael's new friend and, probably, the father of Lindsay's next child.  
  
Brendan.  
  
And the rosary.  
  
It's very clear to me what I need to do. Crystal clear.   
  
"Fuck off," I say to potential-fuck-number-three, and turn away from him, heading for the coatroom.  
  
I know exactly what needs to be done.   
  
And I'm just the man to do it.  
***  
When the banging begins, it invades my dreams and becomes part of the landscape although, for the life of me, the minute I open my eyes, I can't remember the dream's exact nature. Something about danger, a dark heaviness that's smothering me, that wants to pull me under, to claim me as it's claimed others. So, I take a few deep breaths even while I'm struggling to sit up, to figure out who I am, where I am. Fuck, I'm disoriented. It's dark and I can't see anything except faint light coming through the front window. Come on, where the hell am I? Okay, front window. There's a clue. I'm in my living room? Asleep on the couch? Why am I sleeping on my couch?  
  
I hear the banging again, louder this time.  
  
It's the front door. Someone's pounding on the front door at—I reach over and turn on the light next to the couch so I can see the clock on the bookshelf—4:00 a.m.? Groaning, I close my eyes and run both hands over my face, massaging my throbbing temples. Okay, let's see. I came back from the Thanksgiving dinner so upset I smoked a little weed and had a shot of whiskey. I must've dozed off. But why the hell would someone be—?  
  
My eyes snap open as I remember with painful clarity all the ugliness that dinner entailed. Fuck, maybe it's Brian! Jumping up off the couch, I make it to the door and yank it open, hit by a blast of frigid air.  
  
Swaying slightly, Brian stares at me. "It's about fucking time," he growls and staggers into my apartment.  
  
Dimly, I realize it's snowing and there's already a light dusting on the ground. But, shit, I have troubles a lot bigger than that because I can smell the alcohol that emanates from Brian as he passes me. I close the door and lean against it. "You didn't drive over here, did you? Tell me you didn't."  
  
He paces around the living room, moving unsteadily. "Made it here alive so what the fuck do you care?"  
  
"God, Brian! I can't believe you'd endanger yourself, that you'd endanger other people by driving—"  
  
"Shut the fuck up!" He faces me, eyes bleary, and then thrusts out a finger to emphasize his words. "Don't give a royal fuck what you think! Don't care! Never have. Never will!"  
  
Shit, his so-called family should've saved themselves the trouble and just shot him in the head when they had the chance. It would've been more humane. God, what is wrong with those people? They went at him in a backhanded way that was all innuendo, stabbing him in the back at every opportunity as they pretended to carry on their "normal" conversation. And that was only the opening round. Later in the evening, the claws came out. It made me sick to listen to them, but, since I was a guest in their house, I didn't have a clue how to stop it, or at least how to extract myself. I sensed poor Justin going through the same feelings too. Is that how it is in that family? The outsiders or newcomers can see all the shit flying around, but don't know how to deal with it? Talk about dysfunctional. Now, here's the result standing in front of me. He looks beyond wasted, like someone beat on him while they poured liquor down his throat. "Let me make you some coffee," I say, and try to go around him and into the kitchen.  
  
He stops me, the grip on my upper arm painful. "I don't need coffee. Need you to listen … to me."  
  
I brace myself. "Okay."  
  
"This was a mistake. Understand that? Big, fat, fucking mistake. All of it." He waves a hand in the air to emphasize the enormity of the error. "Now it's up to me to fix it."  
  
His eyes are golden in the subdued light, golden and ripe with a pain too big to be concealed even by the likes of Brian Kinney. "How are you going to fix it?" I ask him, and pry loose his fingers one by one until he relaxes his grip.  
  
"It's over." He points. "Me. You. Over."  
  
I know he's drunk and upset and acting out, and yet, still, it hurts. More than I expected. "Okay, so you want me to do what? Leave Pittsburgh?" I manage to speak in a level voice because one of us needs to be rational.  
  
"Do whatever the fuck you want to do. Don't care." He pinches the bridge of his nose, and his eyelids flutter for a moment as if he's fighting sleep. All this frenetic energy, the verbal bashing, everything he's gone through … he must be exhausted. "You're a free agent. Be Mikey's best friend. Don't care! Fuck the shit out of Lindsay. It's fine with me—fine! You can move into Debbie's house and let her adopt your fuckin' ass—is just peachy keen dandy. Just leave me the fuck alone. You hear? Leave me alone!"  
  
"Brian." I take him by his upper arms and try to make eye contact with him. "Listen to me, okay? Brian?" I give him a gentle shake. "Look at me."  
  
"Go to hell," he murmurs, and avoids my eyes.  
  
With thumb and forefinger, I force up his chin and our eyes lock. Not meaning to, I inhale sharply at the pain that radiates from him. "I don't want any of that. Are you listening? I think your friends were way over the line tonight. I don't know why because I don't know them that well, but it fucking makes me crazy that they treated you like that."  
  
"It's okay."  
  
"It's _not_ okay! They're your friends and they had no right to say things like that about you under the guise of telling me your life story! That was mean and underhanded and totally fucked up."  
  
"That's just … them."  
  
My fingers dig into the soft leather of the jacket he's wearing. "Great, then I won't be seeing them very often, will I? Because I'm not you and I'm not a replacement for you and I'm not their idea of some fucked up improvement on you. I'm me and I have my own problems and my own fuck-ups and I'm no better and no worse than you." I shake him again. "Brian! Do you hear that? You can do what you want, but I don't agree with what they did. I'm your brother, your flesh-and-blood kin, and my loyalty's with you. Okay? Got that?"  
  
He stares and I think maybe I see tears in his eyes, but a second later, he jerks free. "Nice speech," he snarls as he walks around the living room, and I wonder how the hell I'm going to keep him here. There's no way he's getting back in that car. "Nice little lesbionic speech by nice little lesbionic Brendan! Just what I expected."  
  
This _is_ what I wanted, right? I had better remind myself of that fact right now and do a damn good job of it too. Here I am with my drunk and hurting brother and that's what I pined for all those years I was without him. We'd be best friends, we'd talk to one another, we'd share in each other's problems. So fuckin' idealistic! Well, guess what Brendan? Here it is, in the flesh, and it sure as hell ain't pretty. Your fucked up brother needs you even if he refuses to admit it. Problem is, do you have what it takes to help him? I manage a slow, deep breath.  
  
"Where's Justin?" Brian says unexpectedly, and wobbles back to where I'm standing. "He come back here? He sleeping with you too? Is he okay?"  
  
I shake my head. "He's not here, but at Debbie's. I don't think he wanted to stay there, but she insisted. He was pretty upset."  
  
"Poor, poor widdle Sunshine." I hear the sudden timbre in Brian voice and know his attempt as sarcasm has failed.  
  
"He gave them all a pretty scathing speech after you took off. The kid's got guts."  
  
Brian stands there, absorbing those words, and for a minute, a tiny smile plays on his lips. "Little shit," he murmurs, but a second later he shakes himself. "Here!" He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out something.  
  
The rosary.  
  
I stop breathing. God, he can't be serious about this, can he? After we've come this far? Now he wants to just end everything? Damn! I hate the people who did this to him, who hurt him so bad he's afraid to love anyone. He needs to dump each one of them, to boot them out of his life once and for all. But … not me. No, God, not me. Because, yeah, I love him. Maybe he doesn't care. Maybe he doesn't want to hear it. Maybe it'll make no difference whatsoever to him, but … "Why're you giving it back to me?"  
  
"Peace. Got to have peace."  
  
"You're still having the nightmares?"  
  
"Doesn't matter."  
  
"It does matter, Brian, come on— _you_ matter."  
  
He looks at me for a moment and then twists his face the way he does when he wants to deny something. "Not really. Who cares? Fuck off. Just take it. Keep it. Have happy talks with God and tell him I said hello." He drops the rosary into my hand and walks toward the door.  
  
"No." Laying the rosary on the couch, I get in front of him, backing up as we walk toward the door. "No way. You're not leaving."  
  
He glares at me. "You want to take me on? You think you can?"  
  
"I think I have a shot and I'm willing to give it a try. You're not driving while you're drunk, Brian. You could hurt yourself or someone else. You could end up in jail. I'm not going to let that happen."  
  
"Why?" He wrinkles up his face, pushing his lips into an exaggerated pout. "You _care_ about me? My widdle brother doesn't want anything to happen to me because it'll hurt his itty bitty lesbionic heart?"  
  
"Yes, it will! It fucking will!" I throw the words in his face, wanting there to be no doubt about where I stand. "You can go on thinking what you want because I have no control over that, but I care about you, Brian. In fact, I fucking love you, and I'm not going to stand around and watch you kill yourself!"  
  
He pushes his face close to mine. "How you gonna stop me? Yeah, maybe you can keep me here right now, but after that, what then?" He cocks his head to one side, the challenge clear. "You gonna camp outside my door and monitor me? Keep me from going to Babylon and drinking myself silly? Keep me from fucking as many guys as I can get my dick into? Keep me from drinking all the JB I want? Keep me from driving around loaded?" He straightens out, triumphant. "Can't do it. No way! You and your _love_ are supposedly the most potent forces in the whole fucking universe, right? Yet, you can't do a goddamn thing with it, not one fucking thing that counts! People like you make me sick, know that? You think your _love_ is so powerful, that you can move mountains with it, change people's minds, do the impossible. It's bullshit, Brendan! Why the hell don't you grow up and realize what bullshit it is?"  
  
His words take my breath away and instantly I want to lash out at him, to tell him to go to hell, to somehow make him feel as shitty as I feel being mocked that way. But I struggle to remember that he's unbelievably desperate, and desperate people always attack. Somehow keeping my own emotions in check, I look him in the eye again, my hands clenched so tight they hurt. "Maybe so, Brian, but there you have it. I love you. You're my brother and I want to be there for you. If you reject what I offer, I can't stop you, that's true. You're an adult and can do your own thing. But I'll try. I guess that's all I can say. I'll keep on trying."  
  
Brian's face twists in an anguish that pretends to be anger and he turns his back on me. Standing there, his shoulders rise and fall as he breathes deeply, rubbing at his face, saying nothing. Then, as if he's decided to tour my apartment like it's an art museum, he begins to walk the room. Stopping every once in awhile, he stares at one of my pictures and then moves on. I follow him because I fear he'll bolt for the door and I want to keep him within reach. His sudden silence is odd, but maybe, just maybe he's thinking through what I said. God, I hope so. Somewhere inside the drunkenness, I know he can be reasonable, I know he's intelligent, he can figure it out. He's stopped three or four times already, so, at first, I don't notice the picture he's staring at the next time he comes to a halt because I'm watching his face, alert for any sign as to what he'll do next.   
  
He's suddenly very still.  
  
I turn to see what he's looking at and realize it's one of my family photos. Mom, Dad, and me one summer at Lake Roosevelt. I'm standing between them and I guess I'm around ten. We're smiling and I look geeky with my hair standing up in odd places and my lifejacket making me appear to be a chubby rubber toy on skinny legs. It's a nice photo that captures a great summer vacation, but not really anything more than that. At least, I don't think it is …  
  
I look back at Brian. He's staring at the photo, lips slightly parted, his breathing shallow. Staring at the photo like he hopes to commit it to memory. Staring at the photo like his very life depends upon it.  
  
And his eyes are filled with tears.  
  
Frozen for a moment, I see it all then, see it and feel it and know the pain he's suffering like it's been downloaded directly into my heart. The misery in him is palpable. I want to curse at the agony he's had to bear all these years, feelings deep inside that are tearing him apart now that they've finally started to surface.  
  
God! I move closer so I can touch his shoulder with gentle fingers, fearing his reaction even as I do.  
  
He turns just a bit, and stares, the anguish now present in all its fullness, unmasked for me to see. A single tear slips down his cheek. There's so much I want to say to him, so much comfort I want to offer, but right now there's only one thing I want to do—one thing I _have_ to do. It's a huge risk, but I don't give a damn. Moving with care, I step up to him and put my arms around his neck, drawing him closer until I've locked him in a warm embrace. "I'm sorry … so sorry," I manage to whisper.  
  
There's nothing else to say, nothing else to do.   
  
Only this.  
  
For a moment, his hands hang limply at his sides, but a few heartbeats later that changes, and Brian's arms go around my waist. He draws me close.  
  
As I hold him snugly, he leans against me, his face pressed into my shoulder, and I feel faint tremors shaking his slender frame.  
  
My eyes fill with tears as I hold him tightly and I don't move.  
  
I don't move at all.


	16. Chapter 16

  
Author's notes: In this crazy, post-bashing world of medications, doctor visits, and strange acronyms like “PTSD,” does Brian have time to get acquainted with a guy who claims to be his _identical twin brother_? Can that really be true? His father was duped, his mother lied, and there are _two_ of him?  


* * *

[ ](http://photobucket.com)

 

~ 16 ~  
  
_"He's my brother," I say without thinking and realize right then that something has changed, a something I can't quite define, a something that hasn't bothered to let me know of its existence until now._  
  
My head aches the next morning, my eyes hurt, my neck has a crick in it, and that's _before_ I remember what happened. Right. The Thanksgiving dinner from hell. A group of "friends" recruited from _Dawn of the Dead_. Cruel dinner conversation that made me lose my appetite. And at the end of it all, a wasted Brian, shattered and ready to drop kick me out of his life. Shit, what have I gotten myself into? Even worse, I am _still_ on the couch because I gave Brian the bed.  
  
Feeling much less like the wonderful brother I'd been a few hours ago, and more like an eighty-year-old man who'd just passed a kidney stone, I stumble into the kitchen and start the coffee … once I remember where it is. As I spoon French roast into the basket, I go over my current situation with what brainpower I can muster. What am I going to do when Brian comes out of his alcoholic haze? More importantly, what will _he_ do? It seems unlikely he'll be all smiles, that he'll tell me what a great brother I am, give me a big hug, and want to know when we can do lunch.   
  
Pulling two mugs from the cupboard, I set them on the small table where I eat most of my meals while I ponder my suitability for this task. I am supposed to be the stable twin, right? The guy who's had the great upbringing, who never burned down the country club or dyed his hair green during his teen years. Hell, I was too busy being the world's biggest geek to think about something _that_ cool. Last night, yeah, I'd spoken from the heart, done what needed to be done, and maybe, just maybe, it would prove to be a good thing. But could I pull it off again? Because while I might be reasonably secure, I have my own issues just like everyone else. If I'm going to help Brian, assuming he'll let me, I need to have good advice to offer, don't I? I wonder, though, if I do.  
  
I pull the bread out of the breadbox and pop two pieces into the toaster, then go looking for the aspirin in the cupboard over the refrigerator. I'm thirty-one years old and I've had at least two serious relationships in my life. Both total failures and both for the same reason. Does that constitute a pattern? And does it, by default, make me a bad adviser? I set the aspirin on the table, then get the milk, sugar, butter, and some spoons, knives, and plates. Why am I worrying about this? Talk about feeling insecure. Right now, when Brian's feeling so down, I need to be the strong one, the one who's got the wisdom, and yet here I am at 8:00 a.m. stressing out over something that hasn't even happened.   
  
God, I can be so neurotic. I hope Brian doesn't pick up on that, at least not this morning when he's probably feeling vulnerable and maybe foolish about what happened last night when he—  
  
"Where's the coffee?" Brian demands as he walks into the kitchen although I notice right away he's not moving at his normal swift pace. He looks around until he spots the pot, then lifts it off the warming plate and brings it to the table, glancing at me. "What's wrong with you?" His voice is groggy, and he sounds exhausted. "You look like your dog just died."   
  
_Yeah, that dog didn't die, he bit both of us,_ I think, but decide to keep the thought to myself. I watch as he fills our cups and returns the coffee to finish brewing, damn glad I have that brew-and-pour feature. So much for expectations about the way things will be between us. "I'm just tired," I tell him as he grabs the toast that pops up right then and brings it back to the table, dumping both slices onto my plate. "No, they're for you."  
  
With great care, he lowers himself into the chair across from me and I see that, despite his attempt at a cavalier attitude, he's pale with dark circles under his eyes and lots of scruff. But he makes a dismissive sound when I put a piece of toast on his plate. "I don't—"  
  
"You shouldn't take aspirin on an empty stomach." I get up because I forgot the orange juice and put more bread in the toaster while I'm at it, nearly burning my finger when I do. "I don't suppose you'd eat eggs?"  
  
"No."  
  
"I figured."  
  
He cocks an eyebrow at me when I return to the table, and I can almost hear him rallying, trying to be his normal self. "So, what crawled up your ass and died?"  
  
He's deflecting. I know the behavior well because I do it myself. The thing is, I sure as hell don't want to tell him I'm feeling unsure about advising him. Shit, I don't even know if he'll let me help, but at least he hasn't run out the door. I half expected him to do just that, to leave the minute he awoke, to pretend last night never happened. "Uh, well, I didn't get a lot of sleep—"  
  
He's eating his toast and the crunching sounds _so_ loud in this small room. "Thanks to some asshole who showed up at an ungodly hour?" he says, his face deadpan.  
  
I smile. "Yeah."  
  
Brian pinches the bridge of his nose and inhales deeply. "So?"  
  
I put two glasses down and fill them with juice, but stand there, waiting for the toast. "I just … I was feeling inadequate. I get that way when I'm tired."  
  
Brian's gaze sweeps over me from head to toe. "Inadequate about what? It looks like you've got the same nine inches I've got so—"  
  
"You're looking at my _cock_?" I ask him like an outraged virgin schoolgirl.   
  
"I look at every man's cock." Brian drinks more coffee then reaches for the aspirin bottle.  
  
The toast pops and I set it on my plate, watching while Brian takes four aspirin, washing them down with the OJ. This is not the conversation I thought we'd be having, but somehow it works. After all his comments last night about lesbionic, touchy-feely people, especially _me_ , I get the idea I need to move slowly when it comes to discussing anything personal with him. I'm learning. I draw a deep breath and drink some juice, the sweetness a welcome taste on my tongue. Yeah, I think I'm learning. "I was dwelling on my own issues, like my—the relationship I was … I recently stopped being in." I am _so_ articulate.  
  
Brian grunts, sliding down in his chair, eyes half-hooded as he watches me. "Yeah, some chick who dumped you." He seems to gather his strength to say the rest of it. "So what? Fuck her."  
  
Another deep breath and the caffeine is beginning to kick in. "Actually, uh, Kelly was … Kelly is a man." I look him in the eye. "And I dumped him."  
  
Brian doesn't break our gaze, frozen in position for a moment, his coffee cup half way to his mouth. Then he smiles. "Well, well. You're full of surprises." He drinks more coffee then pulls himself up out of the chair to retrieve the pot and pour more. "Why'd you dump him?"  
  
"That's the issue. I want … Kelly is thirty-five, a journalist who works for _The Village Voice_. He loves the whole gay social scene there, and really gets around. Very, uh, into the politics not to mention the clubs."  
  
Brian sighs as he eases himself back into his chair. "But he doesn't want to be monogamous?" he asks in a voice that tells me he's been down this road before.  
  
"No, that wasn't the issue." I see that I've surprised him. "It's more that I've always … I have this desire to live a life like my parents lived, to settle down with one person—it could be a wife or a partner—have children, that whole white-picket-fence thing. I don't object to doing that in a same sex relationship but … " I stop because I can see Brian's not crazy about the idea. "Kelly doesn't want anything to do with family or kids—especially kids. He's just not into that whole scene."  
  
"Good for him," Brian murmurs and meets my eyes when I look over at him. "That stuff's bullshit."  
  
"Not for me."  
  
He shrugs. "So you were brought up by June and Ward Cleaver and you dumped some guy you … did you like him? Were you two—" He scrunches up his face like the words are painful to say. "—in love?"  
  
"Just like you and Justin, yeah," I snap back, but not in an angry way … just being emphatic.  
  
His expression flickers and I see the suppressed emotions that lie beneath the façade he's constructed. Oh, God, was that a terrible thing to say? Am I doing it already? Popping off and saying things I shouldn't say? Brian scrubs his face and I can hear the scratchy sound of his stubble. "Speaking of … I need to get him." Fresh concern overlays the tiredness in his voice. "You said he stayed over at Debbie's?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"I don't know why the fuck he'd do that. He could've gone home with his mom."  
  
"I think Debbie put pressure on him and I'm guessing he wanted a chance to talk to her about, well, you know."  
  
"Okay, then I better get over there and—"  
  
"Wait just a second." I put a hand on his arm to keep him from getting up, and risk another remark I haven't really thought through. "You shouldn't go over there alone."  
  
He stares at me like he hopes to burn holes through my head, but I can see the emotions again flicker in his eyes. "Why?"  
  
"Emmett and Michael spent the night there. There was an issue about their apartment having no heat."  
  
"So?"  
  
"They might still be there."  
  
Now he tries to glare at me in his normal manner, but it's more like a flickering flame he just can't quite manage. "I'm not afraid of anyone. Besides, they're my friends."  
  
My hand tightens on his arm. "Even friends ought to have boundaries that they respect. Yours don't or at least they didn't last night." Then I have a wild idea. "I'll come with you."  
  
His next stare goes on so long I think maybe something snapped in his brain. "Why would you go with me? What are you, my bodyguard?"   
  
I'm surprised at how mild his voice seems although, yeah, given the exhaustion, it's not totally unexpected. There's even a bit of a tremulous undertone, like he's tamping down emotions, although maybe I'm imagining that. I lean toward him and give his arm a gentle shake. "Brian, do you remember last night? The things we said?"  
  
Giving me a look, which is a mixture of annoyance and bemusement, Brian directs his gaze to the floor. "Yeah."  
  
"Weren't too drunk?"  
  
"I remember," he says with a certain amount of vehemence.  
  
I lean closer, tapping a finger on the table. "Then, that's why … what I said to you about-about their fucked up attitude and my … where I stood on that, on _you_." I make an attempt to steady my voice. "I think it'd be a good idea to make that point to them, now."  
  
He continues to stare at the floor, biting his lip as he does. I wait for the anger, the rejection, the sarcasm, but when he looks up all I see is something closer to confusion in his eyes just before the shutters come down. Taking a deep breath, he comes to his feet. " _Whatever_ ," he says although it doesn't quite have the emphatic quality I'm sure he wants. He works his shoulders up and down like he has muscle kinks too. "But I'm leaving now."  
  
"Can't I just finish my—"  
  
Even walking slowly, he's already halfway to the front door. "I said, _now_ ," he calls back, his voice brooking no disobedience  
  
With a sigh, I grab a slice of toast and run to look for my shoes.  
  
***  
My timing, as always, is impeccable. We no more than pull up to the curb and get out of the Jeep when the front door of Debbie's house opens. It's Mikey and Em, slipping and sliding their way down her snow-covered steps. Shit. I can feel myself tighten. I fucking don't need round two or three or whatever-the-fuck it is at 8:30 in the morning after a night of heavy drinking that left me … well, I'm just a little hung over, that's all. Nothing I can't handle, although, yeah, at the moment I feel foggy and arthritic and fuckin' _old_ , but still …  
  
"Hey," Michael says when we meet on the sidewalk. He stands there, eyeing me and Brendan, pale face, dark circles, pained expression telling me he's every bit as hung over as I am. It looks like he's still in DQ mode though. From what I can tell, he may even be ready to end his newfound friendship with my brother because there's a little ice in the look he gives Brendan. "Why the hell did you run out last night?" He passes a hand over his face in a gesture I know well—he's frustrated, angry.  
  
Shit, I'm not doing this. Especially not now. Not ever. I'm dismissing him, getting Justin, and going the fuck somewhere that's not _here_ where I can drink some decent coffee and forget about this whole thing. "I came for—"  
  
"I think you know exactly why he left," my doppelganger says just then at my right side, glowering like an avenging angel although Brendan looks much too dazed and rumpled to be a proper angel right now. His voice, however, is steady and has a don't-give-me-any-bullshit tone to it—I'll give him that. "If anyone needs to apologize, Michael, it's you—all of you."  
  
He's a straight shooter and usually I like that in a man, but do I want him being so honest here, with my friends? With Debbie? Not that I _need_ any of them. Fuck, I don't need anyone. But still, what the hell is going on? First, the for-shit Thanksgiving dinner, then Brendan doing his bullshit touchy-feely little brother routine although, well—okay, maybe his heart was in the right place. Not that I fucking care one way or the other—that kind of stuff never interests me. Then I let him come with me because he says it's time to make a change? I still don't know why I agreed to that. These guys are my friends and I've only known Brendan a few weeks so … fuck, I don't know what the hell to think! But it seems like World War III is about to erupt.  
  
"You can fucking mind your own business," Michael says in answer to Brendan's take-no-prisoners statement. "I have nothing to apologize for. I've known Brian since we were—"  
  
"—both fourteen. Yeah, you told me that ten times last night."  
  
The two glower at one another and perhaps I need to intervene, but a strange thing happens, the same thing that happened back at Brendan's apartment. I don't move or say a word or get angry or anything. I don't fucking know why. Is it the weariness I feel that makes thinking or talking or anything hard to do although, fuck, I've had heavy nights of drinking before without feeling this weighed down. Or am I content to let Brendan do the talking? If so, what the fuck is _that_ all about?  
  
Michael glares at Brendan and turns his head with a jerk to look at me. "Why'd you leave? That was so fucked up. I think you—"  
  
"Would you stop with the guilt trip?" Brendan speaks in a firm voice. He doesn't break the eye contact when Mikey turns to scowl at him again and I wonder if the two of them are going to stand here in front of Deb's house yelling. Funny thing is, I still don't jump in to set them straight. Maybe I really am tired after last night. Or maybe I'm just tired of all the bullshit. Real tired.  
  
Mikey cuts his glare my way. "Whatever," he says and looks very disgusted. "So I guess I'll be arguing with two of you from now on?"  
  
I shrug and give him my best bored look because I sure as hell can't let him see the bewilderment that's churning in my gut. "He's my brother," I say without thinking and realize right then that something _has_ changed, a something I can't quite define, a something that hasn't bothered to let me know of its existence until now.  
  
His face suddenly distorted, Mikey hisses—he fucking _hisses_ —and turns on his heel, stomping off down the street.  
  
Emmett, who stood behind Mikey the entire time he had his meltdown, steps closer. "Brian." He crosses his arms over his chest, and gives me an uncharacteristic look that's sober and thoughtful. "I'm sorry about last night."  
  
"Sorry's bullshit," I say, and feel a little more normal.  
  
"Yes, I think I've heard that before, but still …" He looks at Brendan, then brings his gaze back to me. "The whole thing was like a very bad soap opera, Brian. I've always thought the shit you take from Debbie is … well, odd." Em shrugs. "But we can discuss that later. You look like hell, so I'll spare you." Emmett turns around to stare at the house. "Anyway, you need to get inside before Debbie murders Justin."  
  
I straighten out. "Why? What do you mean?"  
  
"They're having a rather intense discussion," Emmett says, one eyebrow going up.  
  
I don't need to know more. Moving as quickly as I can, I go around Emmett, up the steps, and make it to the front door in a few seconds, Brendan right behind. I turn the doorknob, grateful that the door's unlocked and go inside, spotting Debbie in the kitchen. "Deb?" I walk toward where she's sitting at the table.  
  
She raises her head and I see tears in her eyes although, if the crumbled tissues are any indication, it looks like a few have already fallen. Justin is nowhere to be found. "Where is he?" I say without preamble, stopping next to the table.  
  
Flashing me a scowl, I see her lower lip tremble imperceptibly and know this is serious. Deb's as tough as nails. I should know. "I am _not_ punishing you because you rejected Michael." Her voice is thick with emotion. "That goddamn kid's got it all wrong!"  
  
Justin can be like a fuckin' guided missile when he gets going with this relationship stuff and Deb's got a real soft spot for him, so her reaction isn't a surprise. "Is that what he told you?"   
  
"Yes!" She looks over my shoulder and I realize Brendan is still with me doing his guardian thing. Damn, he's persistent. Just like me. The thought makes me want to smile, but, of course, I don't. I realize Debbie is glaring at Brendan just like Michael did. "You have no idea what you've unleashed," she says to him in her best accusatory tone.  
  
"I'm beginning to," he tells her, very mild. "But, uh, could I make a suggestion?"  
  
"What?" Debbie barks.  
  
"Listen to what Justin says. He's a smart kid, and sometimes an outsider's opinion is—"  
  
"That's the point—he's just a kid! I'm not listening to some fucking kid!" Debbie tells him in a choked voice. "Not even Sunshine!"  
  
"You always told me you respected Justin because he stood up for what he believed in." I hate to make obvious statements like that, but she's getting on my nerves talking about Justin that way and despite the aspirin, my head is throbbing. "Maybe he knows something you don't—"  
  
"Don't tell me you agree with him!" she cries, waving both hands in the air. "He says I've been making you the scapegoat since you were fourteen years old, that I thought of you as the bad kid corrupting my son, and then got pissed as hell when you rejected Michael." She jabs a red-tipped finger at me. "Although, fuck it, Brian, you hurt him when you did that! You know you did. You let him believe he had a chance and then—"  
  
Although it hurts to do so, I shake my head. "I'm not having this discussion, Debbie. Not now."  
  
"You fucking owe me!"   
  
"Maybe I do, but you're going to have to collect some other time." With a smack, I put both hands flat on the table and lean toward her. "Where is he?"  
  
She points to the backdoor.  
  
Giving Brendan a look I hope he reads as "Stay here," I yank open the door and step outside. Justin is standing close to the fence, his back to the house. I see the cigarette smoke drifting in the air. His shoulders are hunched, one arm wrapped around his body in a posture I know all too well. I walk up to him, the snow crunching under my feet, until I'm standing right behind. "Hey," I say in my softest voice.  
  
He turns around enough to see my face and I catch the wet circles under his eyes before he turns away. "Hi."  
  
Is Debbie responsible for this? If so, she's going to hear a few choice words before I'm through although, shit, if I'm going to be lecturing people for hurting Justin I better find a mirror somewhere and start with _me_. I'm getting a headache from all the emotional bullshit, not to mention the hangover, but right now, I have only one goal. Stepping around Justin, I remove the cigarette from between his fingers and take a deep drag on it, flicking it into the snow when I finish. As I blow out smoke, I draw him close, wrapping my arms around him and bringing my body into as much contact with his as I can. He has to be freezing out here, and yeah, he feels like a Popsicle. "I should not have left you," I murmur into his hair.   
  
He puts his arms around my waist and pushes his face into my chest. He's shivering—not a big fucking surprise since he's out here without his coat. "It's not right," he says against me, his voice muffled, but I hear the misery. "What they said and did, it's not right. I-I tried to tell Debbie that but she's not listening and she just turned it on me and said I was ungrateful for everything she's done for me." His voice hitches. "I know she's done a lot, but that doesn't make how she treats you right!" His shoulders shake and he makes a sound somewhere between a hiccup and a gasp, so I hold him closer. "I don't want to be caught between the two of you, but I can't stand by and let her hurt you like that!"  
  
"You're not between us." With an unsteady hand, I stroke his hair. "What happened is nothing, and you shouldn't be—"  
  
"It isn't nothing!" He jerks up his head to glare at me, and I see the tears. Fuck, I hate it when he cries. Why the hell can't he— But then, I almost laugh because I was about to say, _Why the hell can't he grow up?_ My grip on him tightens even more. Fuck, he's trying, isn't he? And getting a lot of shoves from adults who ought to know better. "I don't want you getting in the middle of this. It's not your fight … and there isn't even a fight. It was just a bad night, that's all. That's how it is sometimes especially during the holidays."  
  
"You're wrong, so wrong." Justin pushes himself against me again and he's trembling in a way that seems familiar. "It's changed everything. I don't know why we didn't realize that, but I guess it had to happen. You saw how they reacted to Brendan. It's as if he brought out all the ugliness they've been trying to hide, like Brendan's leaching out the poison."  
  
Exhaustion. That's what the trembling is all about. Justin is mostly normal these days but if he gets overwrought or goes without sleep or overextends himself, he's vulnerable to the same elements that plagued him right after he left rehab. Nightmares, flashback episodes, and, fuck, a seizure—the seizure is always at the back of my mind. All of us, Brendan, Justin, and me, are wasted in one way or another, but with Justin it's more serious. "We're not going to talk about this anymore," I say, making a quick decision.  
  
"Brian we have—"  
  
"No, we don't. All we have to do is get you warm and bring down the level of drama."  
  
"But we had that big fight and I feel so terrible about—"  
  
I bend down to kiss him on the forehead, but he raises his face, so I kiss his lips, his warm mouth atop mine for a long moment. There's no better way to connect with Justin than physically so I run my hands up and down his arms as I extend the kiss. "No buts except maybe this one." I slide my hands down to his ass and give it a squeeze.   
  
He smiles against my lips and I can feel him relax. "Okay, but at some point—"  
  
"At some point, we're going to have breakfast." I throw an arm around his shoulders, pulling him toward the backdoor. "Come on, let's take my brother to Doc's."  
  
That makes Justin smile because Doc's is one of his favorite restaurants. Then he looks confused. "Your brother?" he asks as we head inside, but a second later he sees him standing in the kitchen, his hands in the pockets of his jacket. "Brendan!" Justin wipes at his face self-consciously. "I didn't know you were here."  
  
When Brendan gives Justin a gentle smile that tells me he sees the distress on the kid's face, my heart just … well, I feel something, something too sappy to even think about. Obviously, these two are having some kind of lesbionic effect on me, one that needs to be stopped dead in its tracks. "What happened to Deb?" I ask Brendan, so I don't have to think about that shit.  
  
He shrugs. "She excused herself and went upstairs."  
  
Justin looks down at the floor, biting his lower lip.  
  
I hug him sideways so that he looks up at me and smiles. "Okay, come on. We're going to breakfast."  
  
"We are?" Brendan asks as he trails along behind us.  
  
"Yeah, and no bitching at the restaurant when I mention I've just had my first decent cup of coffee today." We stop long enough to get Justin's jacket from the coat rack before heading out the door.  
  
As we hit the bottom step, and walk toward the sidewalk, Justin is still glued to my side. "Where'd you have your first cup of coffee?" he asks as I unlock the Jeep.   
  
I kiss his cheek. "Brendan's. And it was lousy."  
  
"My coffee isn't lousy!" Brendan says in a mock outraged voice.  
  
"Brendan's!" Justin gives me a delighted smile. "You spent the night at your brother's place?"  
  
I give him a huge frown because, well, I have to. Truth is, I'm feeling so fuckin' relieved we made it out of Debbie's alive I could dance. Almost. And the aspirin must've kicked in or maybe the coffee because I don't feel quite as hung over. I pull open the front door for Brendan, then the rear one for Justin. "What's so strange about that?" I growl at him and smack him on the rear. "Inside, now. You're going to turn blue in another minute."  
  
Smiling hugely, Justin gets into the car.  
  
Brendan climbs into the front seat and he's smiling too.  
  
Fuck, I'm trapped between two lesbians with dicks that are _not_ strap-ons, and I'm taking them to breakfast?  
  
What the hell is wrong with me?


	17. Chapter 17

  
Author's notes: In this crazy, post-Brendan world of outraged friends and “family,” can Brian continue to draw closer to his brother while his relationship with Justin grows? Will Debbie and Michael interfere with that? Does Lindsay have a hidden agenda? And will Justin imperil his deepening relationship with Brian by lying to him more?  


* * *

[ ](http://photobucket.com)

 

~ 17 ~  
  
_I said things were going to change, but, fuck, I didn't know how profound that statement really was._  
  
"You know what I think?" I say to Brian late that morning. I'm nude, straddling him, our cocks rubbing together as I look into his eyes, and I'm contemplating round three of our little mid-morning fuck-fest.  
  
"What's that?" Brian looks as relaxed as he ever looks, his eyes a golden brown in the light coming from the front windows, his body still glistening with sweat from our recent activities. He gives me a languid smile. "You want to give me another blowjob?"  
  
"No." I lean forward, trapping his arms so that I'm holding him down. Okay, not really. We both know he could get out from under me if he wanted to. But it wouldn't be easy because I'm stronger than I look. Not that he'd ever try, though, because I'm pretty sure he loves being held down by me, especially when I'm naked. "I think you should let me top you." I grind against him to make my point and my cock starts to harden.  
  
His smile fades. "Right." His voice is soft like he doesn't want to hurt my feelings although he arches toward me even as he says the words. "That's really gonna happen."  
  
"It's got to happen sometime."  
  
Brian puts his tongue in his cheek. "How about when hell freezes over?" the big smart-ass says.  
  
I wrinkle my nose. "Cliché." Okay, it was worth a shot. I lean down further and kiss him unhurriedly, my tongue deep in his mouth tasting the salty sweetness there, wondering if we have time for more before Brendan shows up. Probably not. "You don't know what you're missing," I tell him after a minute, but then I move off of him, flopping down on my back, eyeing my half-woody with regret. "Remember I told you I was ambidextrous? Well, in that too."  
  
"I remember you told me you were a top and a bottom." He huffs out air, and rolls toward me, elbow propped on the bed, hand cradling his head as he regards me. He caresses my cheek with light strokes that almost tickles. "Does a week go by that you don't hint about the _top_ part?" he asks, but he's amused … in fact, lately he seems to be amused a lot. And, yeah, I know why.  
  
"Just trying to keep my options open."  
  
He leers. "How about you just keep your _legs_ open?"  
  
I flutter my eyelashes. "God, Brian, you're _so_ romantic. You make my heart beat faster when you talk like that."  
  
"Yeah, I bet I can get your heart rate up in about two minutes."  
  
I turn on my side, reach over, and kiss him again. Okay, so I'm a slut for his kisses. Fuck, can you blame me? Look at what I have to put up with. The long, lean body, especially the pecs, lats, his back, arms, and stomach muscles, even his ass. The totally gorgeous features including the hazel eyes and kissable mouth. And, then, like the cherry on top, there's the incredible person he is, inside. I've heard people say that the brain is the biggest sex organ of all and sometimes I think that's true. Lately, I've been so turned on by Brian's loving behavior. Yes, _loving_. I think I'm starting to realize that's what it is although, yeah, I still wish I'd see more of it in romantic gestures like some couples have. But, I guess I should know by now how unlikely that is … about as unlikely as me topping him.  
  
"Brendan will be here soon," Brian says as he pulls back from our make-out session, giving my mouth one last wet lick before he kisses my nose. Then he gets up. "I better shower."  
  
I watch as he walks off, wondering if I should join him. Of course, if I do, we'll end up fucking again and my ass is already sore from the last few days. However, since when has that stopped me?  
  
The shower comes on and I hear the familiar sound of the water splashing onto the tile.  
  
Oddly enough, I don't get off the bed. Rolling onto my back, I smile, my hands behind my head as I ponder the last two weeks. I said things were going to change, but, fuck, I didn't know how profound that statement really was. Things _did_ change. With Brian and me, with Brendan, with Mikey and Debbie—all of them. But the Brian and me part … that's been amazing.  
  
We had a talk ... well, as much as Brian ever talks. He'd just picked me up from school and we were headed to Brendan's for dinner when out of the blue, his eyes firmly fixed on the road ahead, he tells me he likes having me live with him and it has nothing to do with the shit he told my mom. He said we're past that part, and I need to fuckin' get over it. I had to turn my face toward the window to hide my grin because I knew how hard it was for him to say anything that sounded loving. After that, I was warm and giddy and basically useless.   
  
Anyway, we also talked about the tricking. I'm not sure, but I think he'd talked to Brendan about some of this stuff. He wouldn't make any promises that he'd stop, of course, but after I told him my feelings (calmly, this time), he agreed not to bring any tricks back to the loft unless we were doing a threesome, which, I'm hoping we won't be doing too much anymore. He also agreed to come home by 3:00, to not exchange names or numbers with any of those guys, and to only fuck them once—which he was pretty much doing anyway. Me too—I agreed to all those rules. But the big one was that I asked him not to kiss anyone but me. It's weird, huh? You can put your dick inside someone else, but you can't kiss them? Let's face it, though. Kissing is intimate. It's face to face, and, thanks to all the nerve endings in your mouth, amazingly tactile, and it's expressing deep emotions. Maybe it's selfish, but I want his kisses all to myself. Well, I want _all_ of him all to myself, but I'll take what I can get right now and, for him, that was a huge concession.  
  
Arching up my body, I stretch luxuriously. It's been great since then, a "great" that includes lots of sex, but other things too. Like Brian taking me out to eat twice although he says it's just "convenient" and _not_ a date. Or Brian cooking breakfast for us last Sunday. Okay, it was only toast and cereal, but still … And then there was the one that made my mouth drop open: Brian stopped at the convenience store down the street on his way home one night and bought me some Rocky Road ice cream. Sure, he talked it down while I ate it, and made sure I knew the fat content and how the calories were going to turn my bubble butt into a big, fat ass, but still, he did it. Brian Kinney did something nice. Hell, he does nice things all the time he just never lets you thank him for them.  
  
And there were even things outside our relationship that have been great like having dinner at Brendan's or Brendan coming over here to eat Thai food with us. Oh, and let's not forget Brian and Brendan talking all the time on the phone or IM—that one I like because Brian can be someone with Brendan he's never been with anyone else: a brother. Another cool thing is Brendan and I talking art with Brian throwing in the occasional witticism. Brendan is smart about that stuff and has a lot of practical experience he's willing to share especially where the photography is concerned. But it's just been so different from the way things operate with us, different and, yeah, great.  
  
Shifting to one side, I grab Brian's cigarettes where they're sitting on the bedside table and light up, my arm cradling my head as I inhale the warm smoke. There's a down side to all of this and thinking about it sobers me. Michael and Deb. Shit, both of them have been on repeated rants against Brian, against Brendan, even against me. Debbie and I had a heated discussion on the phone a few days after our last encounter, which prompted Brian to speak with her although I don't know what they said—whatever it was, it left him gritting his teeth and trying to pretend like he wasn't upset. Now he wants me to get a different job. He's being kind of oblique, not linking it to Debbie, telling me the job at the diner doesn't pay enough and I need to do something more in line with my artistic abilities. Of course, I know what he's thinking. I'm not sure about that idea, though. I hate for the whole thing to escalate like that, but the last time I worked, on Thursday, Debbie was barely speaking to me except to tell me when an order was up.   
  
I don't like that at all.  
  
Brian and Debbie also got into it one morning at the diner although, according to Em, who was there, it was more like Brian being lectured while Debbie shook a finger in his face. He listened to what she had to say, then got up and walked out without saying a word. And he hasn't been back since. He and Michael aren't doing much better, either. They've had a few discussions that have gone nowhere, and haven't spent any time at Woody's or Babylon. So, _stalemate_ —I guess that's what's going on now. No fun, no fun at all.  
  
"Hey, pussy boy," Brian calls from the bathroom. "You can't take it more than twice without starting to whimper?"  
  
Crushing the cigarette out in the ashtray, I get up off the bed and go into the bathroom where I find him shaving. I walk up behind him and wrap my arms around his waist, pushing myself close as I rut against him. "Three times last night and twice this morning. I'd like to see you take it that often without falling apart." I kiss his shoulder, my hands moving up and down the smooth curves of his chest and stomach. "I think _you're_ the pussy boy."  
  
Brian smiles in the mirror, but goes on shaving and I marvel once again at his good mood.   
  
A few minutes later, I get into the shower and dress quickly afterwards. Even though I'm officially on break, I've got a project due the first of the year and I've booked time to work on it over at PIFA along with a secret project I'm doing, for Christmas. When Brendan was here the first time, I took some pictures on the digital camera Mom gave me last year for my birthday. Now I'm manipulating one of those photos on the computer—the one at school, not my home computer—and will be giving both brothers a framed picture of the two of them as soon as I'm satisfied with what I've done. I think it's going to be cool.  
  
The buzzer sounds and I hear Brian say something at the intercom so I tie my sneaker and hurry downstairs just in time to see Brendan come through the door. The two of them are so funny together. Brendan wants to hug Brian when he sees him, but he knows Brian would think that was sappy, so he settles for clasping Brian's shoulder whenever they're together, which is kind of cute.  
  
Brendan gives me a huge grin. "Hi, Justin."  
  
"Hey."   
  
Brendan's sporting a full on beard these last few days, which I guess is one of the advantages of working freelance. He has on jeans, a green sweater, black jacket, and tennis shoes and, even though Brian is wearing black jeans and a blue sweater, he doesn't look a lot like his brother now, which I think they're both glad about. "Guess what?" he says excitedly to Brian, who cocks an eyebrow, but says nothing. "My dad's coming for Christmas!"  
  
"Really?" Brian says and that brings on a cautious smile. "That's great."  
  
"Yeah, he's got a ton of frequent flyer miles and turned them into a ticket."  
  
"That's wonderful!" I say as I come closer to where they're standing. "Wow, we need to do something, don't we, Brian? Have him over for dinner, or, wait, no! We should have him over on Christmas morning! We can do a brunch! That'd be so much fun!"  
  
"Sunshine—"  
  
"And we'll invite my mom and Molly!" I grab Brian's arm and tug on him like I'm ten years old. "We _have_ to have a tree now. You can't keep on saying that it's stupid and sentimental and totally—"  
  
"Can we discuss this later?" Brian wraps an arm around me and pulls me to him. He kisses my cheek. "You have to get to PIFA."  
  
"You're just trying to get rid of me." I'm not upset, but have to give him a hard time. "See how he is?" I say to Brendan. "Would you do something? He doesn't even want a Christmas tree in the loft!"  
  
Brendan is shaking his head. "It seems to me one of those aluminum trees with the multicolored lights might work well in your minimalist décor."  
  
"No! It has to be a real tree, one where you can smell the pine scent. With glass balls on it and icicles that—"  
  
"Speaking of glass balls." Brian makes a grab at me, but I jump back from his hand, feeling the heat creep up my face.  
  
"Okay, that's it, I'm leaving," I say and look for my backpack. I'm not _that_ embarrassed because Brendan told me he's bi, which I kind of thought he might be, so I know he's cool with Brian and me. He told me not to say anything, though, but, fuck, it's not really anyone's business. I wish I could stay because he's brought some pictures he took a few days ago and I want to see them. But, no, I have to be disciplined. Brian and I talked about that a few days ago. If you have goals, discipline is important, doing the things that need doing and not letting your emotions carry you in another direction. Brian does that all the time and look how successful he is. I need to get through school, and get a real job. That way Brian won't be paying for everything, which I don't like. Well, except for school. Dad's paying for school, but, shit, that brings me right back to my "dad" dilemma. I have to tell Brian what's going on!   
  
Clutching the strap of my backpack, I slide open the door. "See you guys later." Somehow, I manage to not sound wistful.  
  
"Have fun!" Brendan calls, but he and Brian are already at the dining room table, and he's unzipping his portfolio.  
  
_Discipline_.   
  
I take a deep breath and go down the stairs.  
  
***  
Brendan lays out his pictures—which are about three-quarters black-and-white to one-quarter color—on the table. He's gone down to Liberty in his grunge disguise to photograph the people in my neighborhood, and he's done a damn fine job of it too, although I won't tell _him_ that. Lots of couples, male and female, kissing, hugging, talking, and arguing with one another. Garishly lit shots in some of the clubs though he stayed away from Babylon. A whole array of photos taken in bars, bookshops, local clothing stores, even the fucking gym. There's the rainbow flag, waving proudly at the corner of Liberty and Barker's Place. And many shots of individuals. An old man with eyes that seem to bore into the camera lens. A curly haired twink who looks tweaked out, lost. A drag queen in a sparkling pink dress who stares into the camera, flaunting herself. An attractive older woman dressed for success in a power suit and heels. Without half trying, he's captured a cross-section of Liberty Avenue culture. And he did it all without anyone hitting on him or asking "Brian" why he'd taken to dressing like a lumberjack.   
  
I laughed when he told me that.  
  
I stand there massaging my lower back, trying to ease the soreness. My own particular twink has just about worn me out. Just about. "So, what brought this on?" I ask Brendan.  
  
Brendan shrugs. "Well, actually, uh, several reasons. One, it's _your_ neighborhood."  
  
Oh, shit, he's going to go off on another of his "getting to know you" speeches. I can almost hear the music.  
  
"But we've already discussed that," he says, fooling me. He pulls out a final few pictures from the portfolio and adds them to the ones on the table. "I guess … well, I miss Jackson Heights, especially the gay neighborhood."  
  
"More colorful than your average hetero spots?" I can't help but smile when I say it because I know it's true.  
  
"Yeah, definitely. And there's …" He hesitates and I know he wants to say something personal and doesn't know if he should. He's started confiding in me and isn't sure I'm happy about that. Of course, he has yet to figure out that I live with one of the biggest "tell all" types this side of the Mississippi, but I think it's slowly dawning on him. "I, uh … actually—"  
  
"Spit it out," I advise him, but there's humor in my voice because I don't want to scare Mr. Bambi-in-the-headlights. "What's on your mind?"  
  
He grimaces, and sits down in one of the dining room chairs, patting his jacket pockets until he finds his cigarettes. "Uh, when Dad called—not this time, but earlier in the week—it was because …" He bites his lower lip. "Kelly called him. He's looking for me. I asked Mr. Lesniewski to not give out my forwarding address to anyone. And I … I'd cancelled my cell phone account and, of course, my email address changed, but my snail mail's being forwarded by the post office." He chuckles, though it sounds forced. "I guess he never thought to just send a letter." As he lights the cigarette, the acrid smell of the match is replaced by the sweet scent of smoke.  
  
Oh, shit. The ex is on the prowl. "Well, so what? You're done with him, right?" I sit down and grab the cigarette, taking a deep drag as I stretch out my legs. "Why should that be of any concern to you?"  
  
He lights another cigarette then leans forward a bit, hands dangling between his legs as smoke drifts upward. "Come on, Brian. You know I have feelings for him."  
  
"Then why in hell did you tell him to get lost?" This once again confirms for me why it's better not to get entangled with people. _Emotions_. They fuck up everything. "If all that bullshit about marriage and kids is what you really want, you ought to tell club boy to take a hike, right?"  
  
"It's not that simple. He's a wonderful person and I … when I say I miss Jackson Heights and I wanted to be in a gay neighborhood, I'm really saying that I miss Kelly."  
  
I give him my best smirk. "Sorry, my Brendan-to-English translation skills are still rusty." Okay, I enjoy talking to Brendan most of the time, but the touchy-feely crap always makes me itch all over. Does he _have_ to be so damn honest about his emotions? "I think maybe it's time you let some of _me_ rub off on you," I say to him. A few days ago we had a conversation over the phone when he suggested some of his best traits ought to rub off on me.  
  
"And what parts would that be?"  
  
"All this hearts-and-flowers about Kelly. Come on, you made a decision, you ought to stick with it especially if he isn't what you want."  
  
"Oh, you're one to talk. You change your mind where Justin is concerned all the time."  
  
"I do not."  
  
"Sure you do. I'm not blind. If he wants something and he asks for it in the right way, you give it to him if you can. You're totally like that with him. Like the stuff with the Christmas tree. You know you're going to do that, right?"  
  
I am now glaring at him. "No, I don't know that."  
  
"Sure you do. Check underneath that prickly exterior you try to pass off as the _real_ you and you'll find a person who genuinely cares for lots of people. And Justin is at the top of that list."  
  
I look him in the eye. "Did it ever occur to you that it might be time to concede something to _Kelly_?" I ask him, raising an eyebrow to make sure he gets the point.  
  
He stares at me, but just as he opens his mouth to respond, the downstairs buzzer sounds.  
  
I snub out the cigarette and stand. "That'll be Lindsay." I walk over to the intercom and punch the button. "Mother of my child?" I say into the speaker.  
  
She laughs. "That would be me. With said child."   
  
She sounds a little nervous and should be since Brendan is here and it's the first time she's seen him since the "incident." I buzz her in, once more silently protesting this notion that I can't take care of Gus unless I have back-up … in this case, Brendan. So, I fucked up a bit that one time. So what? But the minute I told Lindsay that Justin wouldn't be around this particular Saturday, when she needed to do some Christmas shopping and Mel had to work, she made broad hints that another person helping out (read: more competent) would be nice. Justin told me that Brendan is _so_ good with the little ones, and _so_ patient, and _so_ everything, so I immediately volunteered him for the position.  
  
As I slide open the loft door, Lindsay is stepping off the elevator, Gus in her arms. She's wearing a yellow sweater and brown slacks underneath her coat and looks nice, like she always does. "Hey."  
  
"Hi."  
  
I hear the syrupy-sweet sound of "Mary had a Little Lamb" and realize it's the toy bear Gus has clutched to his chest.  
  
"Dada," Gus said and holds out one arm, making a "uh-uh" as he does.  
  
"Hey, Sonny Boy." I take him as we walk into the loft, but give the damn bear to Lindsay. "How you doing?"  
  
"Dada," he says again and pats my face. I smile but then remember that Brendan is here and he'll tell me my soft underbelly is showing, so I try to get the smile off my face.  
  
"Hi, Lindsay." Brendan comes forward, and is smiling at her, the perfect gentleman.  
  
"Hi, Brendan. Thanks for agreeing to help Brian with Gus."  
  
"It's my pleasure."  
  
We stand there, frozen, the awkwardness like the proverbial elephant in the room. Lindsay and I have had one conversation about the Thanksgiving dinner, but, like me, she attributed most of what happened to the stress surrounding the holiday, and was willing to forget about the whole thing. Just like me. Well, sort of like me. Okay, _not_ like me where Debbie and Mikey are concerned, not after the way Debbie has been haranguing Justin. That just pisses me off. But Linds, well, sure. She's the fuckin' mother of my son. I need to get along with her at least as well as I always have. Besides, other than doing a little tipsy flirting with Brendan, she's not guilty of anything.  
  
"Oh, what's this?" Lindsay notices the photos spread on the table and walks over to take a look.  
  
"They're Brendan's." I follow, making funny faces at Gus as I do.   
  
Brendan grins at us. "Hi, Gus."   
  
"Remember Uncle Brendan?" I say without even thinking about it. Shit, maybe he's right. I'm getting soft.  
  
"These are wonderful," Lindsay is saying as she looks from picture to picture. "Wow, you weren't kidding when you said he was an excellent photographer, Brian."  
  
I frown at Brendan's immediate delighted smile. "Is _that_ what you said?" he asks with a huge shit-eating grin.  
  
"Fuck off."  
  
"Brian," Lindsay says on cue. "Language." Her attention still focused on the photographs, she sifts through a few more before turning to Brendan. "Have you done any shows?"  
  
"In case I didn't mention it, Lindsay is an art teacher," I tell Brendan.  
  
"Used to be," Lindsay says with a rueful smile. "Your stuff is really good. You must've done some shows."  
  
"A few multi-artist ones in New York, yeah." Brendan shrugs. "Nothing major."  
  
"Well, how'd you like to be part of a benefit event at the Sidney Bloom Gallery over on Charles?"  
  
She looks at me like I ought to know what she's talking about, but I shrug.  
  
"Sidney's assistant, Taton Mercer, is ill … with AIDS," she says, her voice suddenly quieted. "He's had tons of support from the Pittsburgh AIDS Project, an organization that helps AIDS patients with their medical bills, housing, food—whatever they need. Sidney continues to employ Taton even when he sometimes can't make it to the office so his medical insurance will be covered. But the Project has helped in so many ways, and Sidney decided he needed to do something for both Taton and the organization. So, he's putting together a benefit at the gallery." She indicates Brendan's photos. "This is actually kind of spooky because it's a black-and-white only exhibit and it's gay-themed."  
  
Brendan's eyes get big. "That is quite a coincidence." He looks at me, but of course, I'm not impressed.   
  
"What's your role in all of this?" I ask her, and that's when I realize _why_ I'm not reacting the way Brendan is. For some reason, the idea of Lindsay being involved in something with Brendan … it doesn't sit right with me. Not sure why.  
  
"Sidney went to the GLC with his idea, and they mentioned the work I've done for them on the center's art exhibits." She gives us both a smile. "I'm coordinating the whole thing at his gallery."  
  
"When's the show?" Brendan asks.  
  
"It's being held Christmas week, after Christmas, but before New Year's—the 28th. I'll have the first exhibits soon and will start to hang everything in about another week."  
  
"Well, uh, thanks for asking." Brendan looks at his pictures. "I guess it couldn't hurt and it sounds like it's for a good cause …"  
  
"Oh, that's wonderful!" Lindsay clasps her hands together and then grabs Brendan's upper arm. "This will be so worthwhile, helping Taton and the Project at the same time!" She locks her gaze with his and I'm standing there with Gus, feeling that cold wind blow all around me. Shit, what's that all about? I have to be imagining things.   
  
Lindsay remembers I'm still in the room and turns. "Isn't that great, Brian?" she says with her most cheery face in place.  
  
"Yeah." I hold Gus a little tighter, wishing like hell we could rewind this encounter by a few minutes so I could edit out the part about the art show. But, shit, why? I'm being paranoid and entirely too lesbionic about something that shouldn't matter one way or another. But … okay, maybe it does. Maybe I think Lindsay likes Brendan just a little too much. Maybe I even think she'll use this as an opportunity to get closer to him. I know how she is and I certainly have the evidence right here in my arms as to how she weaseled herself closer to _me_ to get what she wanted.  
  
Right then, I realize something, though. Lindsay thinks Brendan is straight. She has no idea he's bi and, if my observations mean anything, he's leaning more in _my_ direction. I'm gay, so why shouldn't he be too? Or at least more gay than straight. He's missing Kelly, missing the gay neighborhood he lived in, and, yeah, he even told me he has a tolerant father who doesn't give a shit who he fucks as long as he loves that person. So, even if Lindsay is hoping to get closer to Brian #2 (and what, I have to ask, does that say about her relationship with Mel?), she's barking up the wrong tree. Brendan's heading away from women—at least that's how it looks to me.  
  
Oh, and one more thing. Brendan's my _brother_. He's told me repeatedly that his loyalty is to me first and foremost.  
  
So, why the hell should I be concerned?  
  
There's no reason, is there? None at all.


	18. Chapter 18

  
Author's notes: In this crazy, post-Brendan world of outraged friends and “family,” can Brian continue to draw closer to his brother while his relationship with Justin grows? Will Debbie and Michael interfere with that? Does Lindsay have a hidden agenda? And will Justin imperil his deepening relationship with Brian by lying to him more?  


* * *

[ ](http://photobucket.com)

_He wants to have a nice, long chat about this issue, he wants me to understand and accept what he's doing, he fucking wants his "partner" to be on his side._

  
Walking down Collins Avenue, I see Lydia Joy Stationery up ahead and Daphne standing out front, arms crossed over her chest. Okay, good. I had a feeling she'd be punctual because she's freaking out about getting these invitations _today,_ so freaked out she's doing it without David or her mother because neither one of them is available. It seems like she didn't realize the invites had to be _ordered_ first before she could even get to the sending them out part. That seriously upset her although, nowadays almost anything can have that effect. I never thought I'd say this, but she's become a bridezilla, for sure.  
  
Dad dropped me off at the last cross street, Collins and Shepherd, so there's no way she could've seen us together. Dad and I had lunch over at The Lunchery and I hate to say this, but it was nice. Very low key and non-threatening. Dad asked questions and even when Brian's name came into the conversation, he didn't flinch or frown or act affronted. Sure, I'm still kind of holding my breath, waiting for something bad to happen—I won't deny that. Trust is a hard thing to repair. But maybe we're getting there, inch-by-inch. I'm not sure. I hope so although if that's going to happen at some point in the future—the distant future—I sure as shit need to do something about Brian. Like _tell_ him.  
  
"Hey." I stop where Daphne's standing. Her hair is in two ponytails and she's wearing a purple sweater, black pants, and a black coat. Kinda sober for Daph. "I'm not late, am I?" I ask her because she's staring at me and her eyes are dark and serious. See what I mean? _Bridezilla._  
  
She straightens her arms, hands clenched into fists. "Anything you want to tell me?" she asks with an edge to her voice.  
  
Oh, shit. Nothing like being overconfident. "Uh, no," I say, hoping she's talking about something entirely unrelated to Dad. I raise an eyebrow and try to look quizzical like Brian would look.  
  
"Justin, I _saw_ you with your father," she tells me and now she's pissed as hell. "You were coming out of The Lunchery. You got into his _car_."  
  
"So, what?" Moving on to bluster is my new bright idea. "He's my father, isn't he? Aren't I allowed to—?"  
  
"I'm your best friend. You and your father haven't gotten along in I-don't-know-how-long. It would be big news if you went _anywhere_ with him. Fuck it, Justin! He didn't even come to see you at the hospital!"  
  
"Okay, okay." I look around because she's raised her voice. All I need now in this world of coincidences is for a friend of Brian's to walk by and hear what we're saying. I wave a hand at the stationery store. "I'll tell you, but can we go inside and do what we came to do?"  
  
"Justin Taylor, I can't believe you kept something like that a secret from me!"  
  
Guess not. "No one knows, Daph. I was just … it's kind of been an experiment."  
  
"Some experiment!" She turns on her heel and marches into the store so I follow her like the whipped puppy I am. Best friends can get freakin' crazy when you leave them out of a juicy secret. This one's not as good, say, as someone sleeping with a man or woman who's really hot, but given my dad's explosive nature and some of the things he's done because of it, it's pretty close.  
  
Inside the store, which has a flowery scent to it I don't particularly like, she goes to a wall with a huge rack of gigantic books. I know what they are because she told me that the books are samples of invitations. She wants me to help her narrow down the choices to a couple that'll work for both David's staid family and her own young sense of style. Good luck with that. I'm an art student not a miracle worker. "Here." She grabs a book, which has to weigh ten pounds, then another one. She's piling them on. "Uh, can we just start with a few?" I manage to say, my muscles straining against the weight.  
  
She slams one more into place and pierces me with a look that says I'm already in deep shit, and better be quiet. "Over here." We walk to a group of tables and I gratefully set down the books then slump into a chair. "Daph—"  
  
Daphne takes the chair across from me, shrugs out of her coat, and props both elbows on the table. She rests her chin on one hand and fixes me with a fresh glare. "Tell me. And don't leave anything out."  
  
So I do. I mean, what other choice do I have? We leaf through the books and mark invitations we like and while we do, I spill. It feels good, actually, to be able to share this whole thing with someone. She goes through all the emotions I've gone through too. Astonishment, distrust, anger, and a grudging acknowledgement that maybe, just maybe, my dad is being sincere. We spend at least an hour doing this, talking and looking at invitations, before the dangerous part of the conversation finally surfaces ... just like I knew it would.  
  
"So, what does Brian think about all of this?" Daphne asks as she turns pages in one of the more frilly books, laces and pearls and ribbons seemingly on every page.  
  
There's a protracted silence from my end of the conversation that causes Daph to raise her head. "Justin?" She gives herself a moment to assess my face, which is always very instructive even when I don't want it to be. "Oh. My. God. Justin?" She can't believe what she's seeing, apparently, so she stares more. "You didn't tell him? God, Justin, tell me that's not true!"  
  
"Daph, I've tried, but—"  
  
"Justin! You know how he feels about your dad. Think what your dad did to him. He's going to be furious if you wait until you and your father are all comfy and cozy before you tell Brian what's going on. Are you insane?"  
  
"Apparently."  
  
"Don't take that attitude with me!" she snaps and in an instant, I'm flashing on her mother. Wow, the acorn sure doesn't fall far from the—  
  
"You know you should've told him from the very first moment your dad contacted you. Now how're you going to tell him? He'll feel like you've deliberately deceived him."  
  
Fuck. She's right and I know it. I've known it all along, I've just been too chicken shit to deal with it. "I don't know," I say and give her my most appealing look. "Got any ideas?"  
  
"Oh, don't put this on me!" She scowls and slams her book shut. "Don't you think I have enough going on already without worrying about Brian killing you when you tell him this?"  
  
"He won't kill me."  
  
"Justin …" She rolls her eyes. "This is the man who fought tooth and nail to keep you from cracking the code to his heart. And you don't think he'll be devastated if you break this to him six months from now?"  
  
Shit! She's right. Of course, she's right! "What should I do?" I asked her urgently, giving up any attempt to be cool or logical about this. "I need some advice, Daph! Some good advice."  
  
She gives me her coolest stare. "I don't give any other kind." Waving a hand at the books, she grabs another one and opens it up. "Keep looking."  
  
I grab another one too.  
  
"And while we look, I'll tell you what I think you should do."

***  
On the dance floor, my arms around Justin's neck, we grind against each other as our bodies sway to the rhythmic beat. Despite the fact that it's December, the room is warmer tonight than it usually is this time of year so we're both sweating. When I run my fingers through Justin's hair, I can feel the dampness there. Both of us are buzzed and turned on and certainly ready for action. It's only a matter of deciding when and how. The kid's not much into threesomes although I fuckin' know he gets off on them. But, okay, we have these rules now so I'm trying to figure out what's the best thing to do. I don't want to upset Justin, but I am so sick of fucking like a couple of breeders. Yeah, thanks to Michael's recent bullshit and my preference for avoiding the histrionics, it's been too long since I've been to Babylon or Woody's. And thanks to my two lesbian companions as of late, I am, instead, getting an eyeful of Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood where everything's nice and clean and sweet and lovely.  
  
Shit.  
  
I don't know what the hell they're doing to me or if I like it. Okay, maybe it's not bad talking to Brendan every now and then. He's interesting, I'll give him that. And the little dinner exchanges have been okay. I haven't complained although it might be giving both of them the wrong idea. Justin and I aren't a couple no matter what he or Brendan might think. And despite the fuckin' rules I don't do monogamy and never will. I'm queer and I like slamming some hot guy up against a wall and fucking the shit out of him whether it's the hard surface of the backroom, the cold steel of one of Woody's stalls, or a rough brick wall outside in the alley. But thanks to the citizens of Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood, I haven't done that in a long time. Okay, not that long, but long enough. And it's grating on my nerves.  
  
Breaking contact with Justin, I grab his hand and, weaving through the gyrating bodies, pull him toward the bar. I've made my decision. Tonight is going to be different. We might end up fucking in bed, but there will be _three_ of us. Or maybe we'll get down and dirty in the backroom with a few extras thrown in for good measure. I don't fucking see why we shouldn't do that. It's Christmastime, right? Merry Christmas to me.  
  
"Well, well, if it isn't Ebenezer Scrooge, and his ward, Tiny Justin." Ted is leaning against the bar, drink in hand, Emmett by his side. "Salute!" He tips up his glass and knocks back the contents.  
  
"Hi," Justin says to both of them, but not in his normal, perky voice. The kid has been quiet tonight, but I'm attributing that to his man of honor foray with the bride-to-be earlier in the day. That's enough to take the sparkle out of any man's wit.  
  
"Chivas Regal," I say to the bartender and hold up two fingers. Fortunately, it's Charlie, who's always willing to overlook the fact that Justin's too young to even be in the club not to mention drink anything other than a soda. Stupid, fucking laws. Like kids his age aren't out getting plastered every night.   
  
"So, are you _ever_ going to make up with Michael?" Ted asks in a peeved voice, and I know I want to pick out someone and, whether it's the backroom or the loft, leave _immediately_.   
  
"Teddy," Emmett admonishes him. "Don't start."  
  
"No, let him start. I don't give a fuck." I cock an eyebrow at him. "What do you want me to do, Theodore?"  
  
"Apologize."  
  
"Oh, that's for shit!" Justin comes to life, leaning across me to glare at Ted. "They should apologize! They were the ones who—"  
  
"Easy, Sunshine." I lay a hand on his shoulder and give it a squeeze. "Let's not go round and round again. It'll just make you sick."  
  
Justin huffs, grabbing the drink after the bartender leaves. "Fuck."  
  
"Michael is your best friend," Ted goes on even when Emmett shakes his arm. "Between him and Brendan, he ought to take priority. Fuck, so should Debbie!"  
  
"Teddy, you don't know what you're talking about," Emmett says to him. "And we're not getting into it here." He rotates a hand in the air, wiggling his fingers as he does. "We're here to have fun, to dance, to find someone _fantastic_." Taking Ted's drink, he plunks it onto the counter and grabs his hand. "Dance with me."  
  
"I don't want—"  
  
"Dance with me!"  
  
We watch as Ted reluctantly leaves. "Shit," Justin says and knocks back his drink. "I hate this whole thing."  
  
I sip at my drink, letting the nutty flavor wash over my tongue. I'm so sick of the conversation I don't even want to reply. Leaning against the bar, I twist my head to one side and take a deep breath. "So, how was your day, honey?" We haven't really talked since I picked him up at PIFA after his Art History class at seven, ate a quick dinner, had a few drinks at Woody's, and headed over here. Now that I think about it, that's unprecedented. Okay, we met other people, we were distracted a few times, but since when doesn't Justin chew off my ear with the minute-by-minute events of his day? How could he have been silent for so many hours? It seems like an amazing feat, a world record even. And why am I just realizing it? Shit, I know I'm his polar opposite, but I've been known to talk every once in awhile. "What's wrong?" I say when all of this has swept through me. "Why're you so quiet?"  
  
Justin leans a little closer like he's having trouble hearing me over the pounding music. "Am I?"  
  
He's using that cutesy expression no one ever questions … except me. "Spit it out." Happy for the distraction, I take his chin and turn his face so I can look into his eyes. "Why have you been so quiet?"  
  
He stares at me, those blue eyes guileless, but after a moment, he drops his gaze. "Uh, okay. Well, the truth is … I talked to my father today."  
  
Am I hearing this right? "Your dad? What the fuck does he want?"  
  
Justin has his hands wrapped around his drink and is staring at that. "He wants to meet."  
  
"For what?"  
  
"Just to … meet. He says he wants to change our relationship."  
  
"From what? Zero into zero still equals zero. What the fuck does he think he'll be able to do by talking to you?" I can feel the anger rising. "Why would you even entertain the idea of meeting with him?"  
  
"Brian, he's my _father_."  
  
"So what? Just because he provided sperm to your mother doesn't give him any fuckin' claim on you especially after what he's done."  
  
"But maybe he's sorry about that." Justin gives me a beseeching look. "Maybe he wants to understand."  
  
I lean closer so he doesn't miss what I'm saying. "Understand that you're a fag? That you love to suck cock? That you really enjoy taking it up the ass? You think he's going to understand _that_?"  
  
Justin's eyelashes flutter as he struggles not to close his eyes. "Maybe."  
  
"You're fuckin' fooling yourself, Justin. He's a homophobic prick and nothing is going to change that."  
  
"Still …"  
  
"Still what?" I take a moment to study his face and don't like what I see. "Fuck, you _want_ to meet with him? After all he's done, you actually want to sit across from that son of a bitch bastard and _talk_?"  
  
"Brian, I know your relationship with your father was different than mine, but—"  
  
I lean closer, in his face. "My relationship with my father has nothing to do with this, nothing at all. We're talking about Craig Taylor, your homophobic father, who disowned you when you refused to give into his demands. Do you even fuckin' remember his demands? That you don't speak about or act on your disgusting lifestyle, that you never see me again?" I restrain myself as the confrontation with Justin's dad more than a year ago flashes through my mind. "Do you remember how he tried to kill me? How he rammed the Jeep, how he fuckin' repeatedly kicked me?" I exhale with a great deal of force. "And all you can do is stand there and give me your goddamn sentimental bullshit about how your father will fucking _understand_ you? Shit!"  
  
"But Brian—"  
  
"Fuck it, Justin! The man didn't even come to see you when you were in the hospital!"  
  
"Neither did you!" Justin yells over the music as the anger flares in his eyes. "I had to track _you_ down, remember? I was in the fucking hospital for six weeks and you never came anywhere near me! So who're you to—"  
  
Cold anger grabs me and I straighten out with a jerk. "Do what you want," I tell him, my voice going blank. "I don't know why in hell I'm even discussing it."  
  
"Brian, don't be that way. I want to discuss it with you. I want your opinion because—"  
  
"Just forget it! You don't fucking need my _anything_. All you have is yourself. Haven't I told you that?"  
  
"I don't believe that! People need each other. You and I, we're—"  
  
"—we're going to stop this bullshit conversation and get back to the main reason we're here." I turn us both around, gesturing at the men before us. "Choose."  
  
Justin looks up at me and I see the frustration in the pinch of his lips. He wants to have a nice, long chat about this issue, he wants me to understand and accept what he's doing, he fucking wants his "partner" to be on his side. But as he stares, I see the change come over him. He reads me and what he sees tells him I'm not playing his little let's-all-understand-one-another game, especially not where Craig fuckin' Taylor is concerned. I watch as the fight goes out of him. Justin looks out into the crowd. "Him," he says finally.  
  
I follow where he's pointing and see a tall brunette in tight jeans, a big hunk of a man who's swiveling his hips as he grinds his cock against another, smaller man. "Good choice," I say with an evil grin, and walk out onto the dance floor to get him.  
  
***  
Watching Brian wade into the sea of dancers, all I can think is what a fuckin' failure I am. Damn, Daphne spent so much time going over the plan with me, and this is what happens? Being quiet all those hours … that part worked great. But as soon as I started talking, he did just what I thought he do, he freaked. Man, he's so fucking angry now! Even though he's masking it, I can see the fury in his eyes, a fury he now wants to exorcize by fucking me within an inch of my life. I should've kept my big mouth shut, I should've ditched the whole plan! Fuck, I knew he was getting uneasy about all the domesticity. I'm not a fool, I knew that would happen, and I was even prepared for it. But it's not like we've been doing it for months and months. Shit, it hasn't even been three weeks yet he's chomping at the bit to do something down and dirty and decidedly triple-X rated. It's part of his image, of who he is and how he defines himself. And in his mind, the breeder stuff goes hand-in-hand with the whole monogamy thing, a concept that's like kryptonite to Superman. I know that and he's not going to get any complaints out of me. I just wish I'd kept my mouth shut about Dad. It looks like I've made everything worse.  
  
Now he'll be angry for days.   
  
Brian brings back Mr. Hunk, the guy I pointed out, whose tee shirt is about to split it's so tight across his massive shoulders and chest. Brian nods toward me and I see the guy's eyes light up. "Cute twink," he says in a gruff voice.  
  
There's nothing I like better than being demeaned like that, but I'm not exactly in a position to complain, so I give the guy a little smile and don't protest when Brian takes my arm and we head for the backroom.  
  
It's a funny place, the backroom. The smell of jizz permeates the air along with a few other odors I won't identify. They clean it every now and then—or at least that's what one of the bartenders told me—but the cinderblock grunginess is really part of its appeal. The heat in here is minimal and most of it comes from the straining, sweaty bodies. Other than smell, it's the _sounds_ you notice right away, the groans, grunts, and smacking of lips and body parts. Nice ambience, huh? I once tried to imagine what my mother would think, but realized it wasn't really something I needed to waste my time on. I _know_ she'd be horrified.  
  
We find a vacant wall and that's when what I _think_ is about to happen doesn't. Brian sees another guy a little further down the corridor and his eyes light up when he does. "Let's make it a foursome," he murmurs with a smile, and lets go of my arm, walking into the semi-darkness to retrieve the other man. The minute he does, Mr. Hunk thinks he's just been given the best gift of the night: me. With a sound that's half growl, half chuckle, he lays his big, bear hands on me, and spins me around 'til I slam face first against the wall with enough force to take my breath away. It's like I've been hit in the solar plexus during dodge ball because suddenly I'm gasping for air, stunned, not able to protest or move.  
  
Mr. Hunk holds me in place with an arm across my back while his other hand lands on my jeans, working the buttons. That's when it occurs to my befuddled self that he thinks he's going to fuck me. "You'll like this," he breathes against my ear. He's unzipping my pants by now and moves to pull both my jeans and underwear down. I realize his next move will involve my cock so I flatten myself further against the wall and struggle to speak though it's not exactly easy given the way he's got me mashed against the cinderblock.  
  
"Get the fuck off me!" I finally manage. What happened to Brian? It feels like it's been several minutes, but my time perception must be off. Fuck, this is pissing me off not to mention scaring the shit out of me. "I said get off!" I say in a voice slightly louder and push against the arm holding me in place.   
  
He's slipping down the back of my jeans. "Oh, yeah, I'll get off all right! I'll bet you're tight!"   
  
Okay, I know Brian is somewhere close and this will be over in a moment, but my body has its own memory of ill treatment so my breathing increases, my adrenaline begins to pump, and despite myself, I start to panic. It's silly, I know, but I can hear the crackle of foil and know Mr. Hunk has pulled a condom from his pocket. The next moment, when I heart a zipper going down, I realize that Brian or no Brian, it's time to act. I wish I had on a heavy pair of boots, but, fuck, you have to work with what you have. Pulling in as much air as possible, I raise my right leg, flex my calf muscle, and kick back as hard as I can, connecting with the asshole's shin.  
  
"Ow!"  
  
He lets go and I jerk around just in time to see Brian hauling him backwards. "Just what the fuck do you think you're doing?" he asks the guy in a deadly growl. Pulling him around, he throws back an arm, and connects with Mr. Hunk's jaw sending him windmilling back. Fixing my pants, I watch with satisfaction as the jerk hits the cement with a thud and notice that some, although not all, of the action in the place stops. "Keep your fuckin' hands off him!" Brian yells at the man as he steps forward to tower over him. "He was going to fuck _you_ , not the other way around." He comes back to where I'm standing, squinting in the dim light. "You okay?"  
  
I draw a deep breath. "Sure. Fine," I tell him, but once again my body has a different idea and, before I even know what I'm doing, I've step forward, wrapping my arms around his waist. I press my face into his chest as a bout of shaking grips me.  
  
"Easy. It's all right. Did he hurt you?" Brian asks in a whisper, his hand going up and down my arm.  
  
"No, just … I wasn't expecting it."  
  
"Neither was I although maybe I should've been," he says and turns to another man who's watched this whole thing go down. Brian shakes his head. "Ain't gonna happen." Then, an arm around my shoulders, he leads me out.  
  
"Where're we going," I ask him, wondering if he's pissed. That'd be just my luck. "I'm sorry if—"  
  
He stops in his tracks. Then he turns to face me, tips up my head, and kisses me on the cheek, his soft lips brushing gently. "You didn't do anything so don't apologize."  
  
"But you wanted to—"  
  
"What I want is to get our coats and take you home," he says in a voice that tells me he's made up his mind.  
  
"Okay." As I walk with him, I wonder, is this a good thing or will it come back to haunt me in some way? I don't know how I should feel, although right now "relieved" is high on my list. Shit, that was _not_ fun and going home … that works for me. "Brian?" I say to him as he hands me my coat.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Thanks."  
  
He looks at me, a slight frown materializing, but it quickly leaves his face as he stares. "Little twat," he says, giving my cheek a light tap. Then he smiles.  
  
Grabbing my hand, he pulls me along.   
  
A minute later, we're out of there.


	19. Chapter 19

  
Author's notes: In this crazy, post-Brendan world of outraged friends and “family,” can Brian continue to draw closer to his brother while his relationship with Justin grows? Will Debbie and Michael interfere with that? Does Lindsay have a hidden agenda? And will Justin imperil his deepening relationship with Brian by lying to him more?  


* * *

[ ](http://photobucket.com)

 

~ 19 ~  
  
_I stare at Brian, who looks decidedly discombobulated although he's trying his darnedest not to show it. Why? Because Dad is coming here to the loft? Could he possibly be nervous about meeting him?_  
"Brendan, how many fuckin' trees do we have to look at before we buy one?" Brian asks me for the third time.  
  
We're trekking through a huge Christmas tree lot and I'm like a kid in a candy store, taking us deeper and deeper into the instant forest that's been created at the corner of Jefferson and Cook, near Brian's place. Picking out the tree was always a fun activity in my family and now I have the "honor" of teaching Brian all about it although I have to say he's not being a very good pupil. "Come on," I say over my shoulder because he's strolling through the area like he's on a catwalk. Given the Armani suit he's wearing underneath his coat, he might as well be. "Here, look. This is a Fraser Fir and this one's a Douglas Fir. See how the Fraser's branches are so much more defined while the Douglas is bushier?"  
  
Brian stares at the two trees and tries to look interested. "Of course I see that."  
  
I inhale the intense pine fragrance again, a scent I love. "Which do you like better?"  
  
"Are those the only two kinds?"  
  
Oh, great, so now he's afraid he'll miss out on something? "No. There are plenty of others like the Balsam Fir, the Colorado Blue Spruce, the Scotch Pine—"  
  
"What the fuck?" He looks at me with real concern like maybe I have a mental condition. "How come you know so much about Christmas trees?"  
  
I give him my widest grin. "I sold them for years when I belonged to the Boy Scouts. I thought I told you that."  
  
"You were a Boy Scout?" Brian's eyes widen. "I don't fuckin' believe it."  
  
Checking my watch, I see it's nearly 3:30. We're supposed to be back at the loft by four to surprise Justin with the tree and all the decorations I "forced" Brian to buy. Then I have to go home, change, and get out to the airport to meet Dad's plane at 7:00. Damn, I'm excited about that. You'd think I hadn't seen him in a million years when the truth is I see him at least once or twice a year no matter what. I guess it's because this time he'll get to meet Brian—that's the part that's different. Luckily, today I didn't have much work. A few hours in the morning covering a council meeting and a fire department demo about the dangers of Christmas tree fires, and I was done. Then I was able to liberate Brian from his office for a late lunch and, after some discussion about our coming Christmas get-together, I talked him into not going back to work, but instead getting the tree.   
  
He and Justin … there's a complex relationship. I guess it makes sense given the age difference between them and how they met. Anyway, I guess they had a disagreement on Wednesday, something about Justin's dad, and Brian felt bad even though he'd never say that. So, I told him he ought to stop fighting about the stupid tree and just get it because it'd go a long way toward fixing whatever was wrong. He tried to argue, but I overruled him. Sometimes, I can do that. So, here we are, and now I just have to get Brian through the discomfort of doing something so normal.  
  
"Oh, come on," I say to him. "Of course you believe I was a Boy Scout! You're always saying I'm so straight and vanilla."  
  
He smiles at that, although it has a wicked tinge to it. "Vanilla, definitely, but I don't know about the straight part."  
  
Shit, neither do I. "Here. Look, a whole group of Douglas Firs. Pick one of these." I wave a hand at the trees. "Look for lots of green, very little brown. And the needles should bend, not break. Try this." I run my hand along one branch, the pine needles brushing against my palm. "See? Not too many fell off."  
  
"You're scaring me."  
  
I hit him on the arm. "Very funny. Come on, _choose_." Brian walks among the trees, stopping to stare at each one while I contemplate my straightness. He doesn't know because I didn't tell him, but his friend Lindsay seems to be making a habit of showing up at the Sidney Bloom Gallery every time I'm there. However, she isn't encouraging the heterosexual side of me. I'm not sure why. There's something a little too eager about her and she's touchy-feely in a way I don't like.   
  
Earlier in the week, I was at the gallery, matting my photos and trying to decide which ones to donate for them to sell and which ones to keep, when Lindsay turned up. She spent a lot of time hanging around, commenting on my photos and telling me stories about Brian in college, stories I guess were intended to show me how close they'd been. Finally, though, she went back to talk to Sidney, and it was right then that one of the other artists working nearby decided to make a pass at me. Almost as tall as I am, he was a good-looking redhead with amazing blue eyes and a nice smile. It freaked me out because I'm not used to men cruising me the way Brian is, but I couldn't help but notice that even though I turned him down as politely as I could, I was more interested in _him_ than I was in Lindsay.   
  
I am so fucked up with this stuff.  
  
Anyway, Brian came along right after that to make sure I set up my part of the exhibit correctly—he is such a control freak. So I told him about the guy and how taken aback I'd been. We were standing behind one of the partitions where my work will be displayed when I said this. Brian responded to my befuddlement by laughing at me. Yeah, he's _so_ sensitive. I wonder sometimes how Justin puts up with him, but I soon caught on that the kid must be a lot tougher than he looks. I'm _not_ tough about things like that—or wasn't at that moment—and soon Brian was backtracking a little because I think he realized he'd hurt my feelings. I have a kind of sore point with that stuff and he ought to know it by now. The thing is, we were talking about my bi-sexuality, very quietly in what we believed to be a deserted end of the gallery. Brian had his back to the partition and I was facing him. And at one point, I swear I saw Lindsay's boots on the other side. She was listening to our conversation. I didn't want to say anything because Brian was already having enough trouble with his family. I'm pretty sure that's what she was doing because if it'd been inadvertent, she would've moved as soon as she realized she was eavesdropping. Since then, it seems like she became even friendlier, which doesn't make a whole lot of sense. If she heard that I was bi, wouldn't she get discouraged? I mean, she's fifty percent less likely to succeed … at whatever it is she thinks she's doing. Frankly, I'm still not sure. She has a _partner_ , right?  
  
"Brendan?"  
  
Startled, I see Brian is in front of me, glowering. "Find one?"  
  
"Yes. Can we fuckin' pay for the thing and get out of here? This place is breeder central."  
  
I laugh as I put a hand on his shoulder. "Brian? Dear brother? _You_ are a breeder too, remember? You're responsible for bringing one delightful child into this world."  
  
He gives me his most disgusted face. "Yeah, but I did it the right way, in a cup."  
  
Laughing, I walk with him to the chosen tree, hoping he's picked a good one.  
  
Of course he did.  
***  
Back at the loft, we haul the stuff up the elevator. Brian has the tree, and I'm carrying the plastic bags, which, given how many of them there are, are cutting into my hands. When we finally manage to get everything to the fourth floor, Brian unlocks the door and rolls it quietly back. He doesn't want to admit it, but I know he's looking forward to surprising Justin. He peers inside. "Honey, I'm home," he says in a falsetto voice.  
  
Somewhere deep within the loft, I hear Justin's laugh. "How was your day, dear?" he calls out in the same tone.  
  
Brian smirks and goes through the door. He walks to the middle of the room, and stops, setting down the tree with a soft thump. "Oh, not bad."  
  
From the living room, I see Justin twist his head in Brian's direction. One moment his face is pleasantly noncommittal, the next it's awash in amazement and joy. "Oh, my God!" he cries and springs up off the couch to come to where Brian is standing. "A tree! You got a tree!" By now, he's jumping like an excited little kid. "You did it, you did it!" He grabs Brian around the neck and plants a big kiss on him. "Thank you! Thank you! You got a tree!"  
  
Brian is working hard at looking unaffected by Justin's happiness, but doing a poor job of it. "Yeah, well, thank Brendan because he—"  
  
"Thank you, thank you!" On cue, Justin comes to give me a sideways hug. He spots the bags I'm carrying and begins to tug at them. "You got decorations too?" I set them down on the floor and he's instantly into them, rifling through the boxes inside. "Did you get icicles?"  
  
"We did. Lots of them."  
  
"And a tree stand?"  
  
All I can do is laugh at his unabashed happiness. "Don't worry! I'm an expert. We got everything!"  
  
After that, we get to work quickly. The super has a saw we use to trim the bottom of the tree. From there, it doesn't take long to set it up in the stand, string the multi-colored lights onto it, and begin to execute our grand design, which involves red, and green glass balls along with silver stars and gold bells. I'm watching the clock because I still need to leave soon, but Justin's glee is contagious and I'm caught up in the excitement. He even puts on _Christmas music_ —a jazzy version of many of the standards—that just adds to our mood. Brian is caught up in the excitement too because I catch him smiling several times although he tries to look suave, sophisticated, and indifferent. But soon he even deigns to pick up an ornament and put it on the tree although he makes rude remarks about it as he does. We've got the thing about halfway decorated when my cell phone rings. Pulling it out of my pocket, I walk a distance away and put it to my ear. "Hello?"  
  
"Hello, hello!" my dad says in his jovial fashion. "It's me! And I'm here!"  
  
"Dad, what do you mean, _here_?" With a grin, I turn back toward Brian and Justin as I frantically point to the phone. Yes, I am a dork. "Your plane doesn't get in until—"  
  
"Took an earlier one, got into PIT forty-five minutes ago, rented a snazzy little red number, and now I'm on my way to … where?"  
  
This is typical Dad. He's impulsive sometimes, which is one of the things Mom always loved about him. He'd come home with a bucket of chicken under his arm and we'd be off to a picnic in fifteen minutes flat. Now, though, it looks like I'm going to be doing a quick exit. "Where exactly are you?"   
  
"On the 60, Brennie."  
  
_Oh, shit. If he calls me that in front of Brian I'll never live it down._  
  
"Hang on a second, Dad." I press the phone to my shoulder. I haven't been in Pittsburgh long enough to be comfortable giving directions. I look at Brian and Justin who're both staring at me.  
  
"Your dad's here?" Justin appears to be almost as pleased as I am.  
  
"Yeah, he's on the 60 and I'm not sure I can give him good directions so—"  
  
"I'll do it." Justin comes over to take the phone. "Hello, Mr. Connelly? Hi, this is Justin.—Yes, sir, I'm fine, and you?—Good. Uh, how far from the airport have you come?"  
  
Right then, I notice a change come over Brian. I guess I've acquired a little radar where he's concerned because his body language tells me he's gone from being fairly relaxed while we decorate the tree to … well, uneasy. I study him, and in doing so, I'm not paying attention to what Justin's saying.  
  
"Here you go. He's all set." Justin hands me the phone.  
  
I put it to my ear. "Dad? So I'll meet—"  
  
"I should be there in about twenty minutes," Dad tells me before I can go on. "And tell Brian I'm looking forward to meeting him!"  
  
Meeting Brian? I'm a little slow on the uptake. "You're coming _here_?" I say when everything suddenly becomes clear to me. Oh, my God. Justin gave him directions to the _loft_.  
  
"Absolutely!" Dad crows. "Save a few of those ornaments for me to put on the tree!"   
  
Then, after a few more witticisms on Dad's part, the phone goes dead.  
  
Dad is on his way.  
  
I stare at Brian, who looks decidedly discombobulated although he's trying his darnedest not to show it. Why? Because Dad is coming here to the loft? Could he possibly be nervous about meeting him? Slipping the phone back into my pocket, I wonder if I've somehow created a big mess. You just never know where Brian is concerned, although I don't expect he'd be unpleasant in front of my father—he is, after all, an adult. But I don't want him being anxious either. I'm trying to make sure he has a great Christmas not jack up the tension by bringing in … what? A father? Okay, Brian's dad was a complete asshole. And Justin's dad treated Brian and Justin both like shit. So, that means …?   
  
Brian doesn't like fathers?   
  
Shit.  
***  
Justin races around the loft like a little housewife who's been notified at the last minute that hubby is bringing home important dinner guests. I know it's in his DNA, his _WASP_ DNA, to be hospitable, but this is fucked up. We have plenty of drinks, alcoholic and non-alcoholic, crackers, cheese, chips, dip, nuts—God knows we have plenty of nuts. So why is he behaving like we didn't just spend three hundred dollars at the grocery store stocking up in anticipation of Christmas day?   
  
"Finish putting the ornaments on the tree," he tells me as he races to arranges crackers and cheese on the coffee table along with some fruit, a bottle of wine, glasses, plates, napkins—the works.  
  
Meanwhile, Brendan keeps eying me like he's afraid I'll explode. Truth is, I don't give a shit about any of this. If they want to get excited because Brendan's dad is about to show up, that's fine by me. I don't care one way or another. The man means nothing to me. He's not _my_ father, he's not my anything. Okay, he's my brother's father, but that doesn't mean a whole hell of a lot.   
  
I'm still wondering how I was talked into this whole Christmas day thing, but there isn't much I can do about it now. Debbie had a fuckin' fit when I called her and told her we wouldn't be coming over because we were having our own celebration. You'd have thought I told her I'd be torching her house and killing her entire family. She let loose with a profanity-laced diatribe that almost made _me_ blush. I think maybe she's losing her mind because she threatened me, saying if I didn't show up, I wouldn't see Gus on Christmas day. Since when does she have that kind of power? I told her I'd already talked to Lindsay and they'd be dropping Gus off sometime in the afternoon _after_ Debbie's get-together. That's when she hung up on me. Of course, I had to go through part two of the discussion a few hours later when Mikey called and did his own yelling. I don't know why those two can't just leave it alone. If I want to host Christmas, whose business is it except mine? This is a unique Christmas and it calls for a unique celebration. I sure as shit don't intend to give them a chance to duplicate Thanksgiving. Not that it bothered me because it didn't. But it obviously bothered Brendan and Justin.  
  
Soon enough, the intercom sounds and Brendan rolls open the loft door while Justin buzzes the old man in. I hang back because one of us ought to behave like something other than an out of control idiot. From the look of it, Brendan would like nothing better than to run down the stairs and greet his father, an idea that makes my lip curl. Could we be more opposite? From my spot leaning against the stainless steel counter, I hear the familiar hum of the elevator as it ascends and a moment later comes to a halt. The door is rolled open and Brendan disappears.  
  
"Hi!" I hear him and, fuck, he sounds like a little kid greeting his father at the end of his workday. His father answers, there's more talking, and I hear what sounds like … slaps? They're pounding one another on the back? Shit, this is worse than I thought. I reach for my cigarettes and right then, in walks Sean Connelly.  
  
He's not as tall as Brendan or I, but not short either—maybe around six feet. White hair, ruddy complexion, a nice build for a man his age. Underneath what looks like an expensive leather jacket he's wearing a periwinkle blue pullover sweater with a white shirt under it, and dark slacks. Well pulled together. Just what you'd expect from a retired lawyer who'd been a senior partner in his law firm. As I do this assessment, he's smiling as he heads for Justin.  
  
"And this is Justin, of course!" Without so much as a pause to seek permission, Connelly envelops Justin in a hug that he doesn't seem to mind.  
  
"Hi, it's great to meet you!" Justin tells him when they pull back.  
  
"I've heard so much about you." Connelly's gaze is still fixed on the kid. "Brendan tells me you're quite the artist. I hope I'll have a chance to see some of your work." Then his face goes serious for an instant. "And let me tell you, I heard what happened and I admire your courage. There's lots of crazy people in this world and it never pays to let them win even one round."  
  
The blush rises in Justin's cheeks. "Thanks," he says, and I can tell he's touched by the words.  
  
Then Connelly turns his gaze on me.  
  
"Dad." Brendan clasps his father's shoulder as they walked the few paces to where I'm standing, the fuckin' cigarettes still in my hand. Brendan takes a deep breath. "Dad, this is my brother, Brian." His voice trembles as he speaks and I see the damn emotion in his face.  
  
I lay the cigarettes on the counter and offer my hand. "Mr. Connelly." One of us has to stay in control and it sure as shit isn't going to be Brendan. "It's nice to—"  
  
"Mr. Connelly nothing!" the man says with mock outrage as he grasps my hand in a strong grip. He uses it to pull me forward and, though I don't know how he does it, he's got his arms wrapped around me and is hugging me for all he's worth. "I can't let you call me that! It's _Dad_ , Brian. Please, call me Dad!" He's laughing and pounding my back and I can hear his voice thicken with emotion. "How will it look when the three of us are together somewhere and you're calling me Mr. Connelly?"  
  
"Uh …" Somehow, he's managed to render me almost speechless. "I don't … it didn't occur to me…" My arms close around him gingerly because it'd be rude not to do something, but … what the fuck?  
  
He pulls back from the hug, hands grasping my upper arms. "Just look at you! You look so much like Brendan and yet so different. How glad I am to finally meet you. When Emma and I discovered that Brendan had a twin brother we were devastated knowing that the two of you had been separated. All these years, I've thought about you and wondered how you were doing, praying for the day you and Brendan could be reunited. It's wonderful that the separation has come to an end."  
  
Fuck, he's so damn sincere it would be churlish to respond cynically. And for some reason, nothing is coming to mind. There's an almost hypnotic quality about the moment. The man's strong grip on my arms feels, somehow, good, though I can't quite figure out why. He even _smells_ good, like faint aftershave mixed with soap and a fresh outdoor scent, although I know this is ridiculous. "Yeah, it was … quite a surprise," I manage to say. Brendan, I see, is watching me closely, and probably holding his breath. Justin too. "It's taken some time, getting used to him." I allow my gaze to rest on Brendan and he gives me a smile that should blind me.  
  
"Well, I'm so gratified to see how well you're doing, Brian." Finally, Mr. Connelly, uh, Sean—fuck it, Brendan's dad, drops his hands, looking around the place. "Brendan tells me you're in advertising. Look at this loft! It must've made the cover of many interior design magazines. And what a handsome, gifted partner you have!" He looks over at Justin when he says this.  
  
Partner? Fuck it, just what the hell does he think he's doing making assumptions like that? I'm not about to let myself be ganged up on by the lesbionic types just because it's the fucking Christmas season and I'm supposed to be all sentimental and gushy. I open my mouth to set him straight, but right then, Justin joins us, slipping an arm around my waist.  
  
"What can I get you to drink, Mr. Connelly?" he says as he tightens his grip on me. It almost feels like he's supporting me, but that can't be right.  
  
"It's Sean to you, young man, and I'd love a beer, if you have one."   
  
Brendan has stepped closer to his father. "Just let me show you the tree, Dad. I think you'll like the choice Brian made." And off they go to where the nearly decorated tree stands between the living room and entertainment area.  
  
I look down at Justin and note his reserved expression. "I suppose you like that he called you my partner."   
  
He shrugs. "I like more that he's so accepting of us. That's very refreshing."  
  
"Yeah." He's right about that, I guess. Fuck it, maybe he's not too bad, although the over-the-top hugging and calling him "Dad"—that has to go. If we can get that out of the way, we might have a chance to be, well, not friends, but _something_. He sure as hell will never be _my_ father. I had a father and he was a first-class bastard. I don't need that experience again. But it occurs to me that maybe I'm being handled here because it's a little suspicious the way Brendan and Justin moved in before I had a chance to make my statement. They know me too well. "He's okay … for a breeder."  
  
Justin reaches up to kiss my cheek. "We hang with breeders sometimes, Brian. I think that's fine."  
  
I _am_ being handled because it's not like Justin to be this calm when someone uses the term "partner" in his presence. He's being too fucking mature about the whole thing. Very mature. "You want a beer too?" he asks me now, still so _not_ -jubilant when he ought to be dancing a little jig and telling me how much I love him.  
  
"Yeah, sure." Right then, I realize I'm amused by his behavior and—okay, this is odd—amused by the whole fucking scene. Amused and with a peculiar warmth in the region where my heart is alleged to be. Me, Brian Kinney, in my fuck-pad decorating a Christmas tree with a breeder-and-a-half, drinking beer, and eating crackers and cheese while we listen to fucking Christmas carols. That's funny, isn't it? Sure, it depends on how you look at it, but, yeah, it's funny and strange and should be something I hate, but it isn't—which makes no sense at all. "Get one for Brendan too," I say as Justin moves off, and I feel my shoulders and arms relax, feel the tension going out of me like I just climbed into a warm bath.  
  
"Brian, come help us!" Brendan calls.  
  
I watch Brendan and Da—Brendan and Mr. Connelly hanging star-shaped ornaments on the tree and know I'm not drunk, know there's no reason I should be so mellow, know I'm behaving exactly the way I've always hated. Yet, for some reason, I can't get worked up about it. I don't give a damn because you know what? I've always done what I wanted to do and right now, this is it. I _want_ to be doing this, and it's exactly what I'm fuckin' going to do.  
  
I don't know why that is.  
  
It doesn't make any fuckin' sense to me.  
  
Except for this: I'm celebrating Christmas with _real_ friends and family.  
  
"Yeah." I push away from the counter, and there's even a little smile on my face. "I'm coming."


	20. Chapter 20

~ 20 ~  
  
_If I wasn't there to see it with my own eyes, I never would've believed it._

  
The Christmas day brunch is a huge, fucking success and, strangely enough, I'm not the least bit surprised. I stopped worrying about it last Friday when Sean came to the loft after he got into town. I thought for sure Brian would explode when the man hugged him, but Brian surprised both Brendan and me and was very laid-back about the whole thing. And he's _stayed_ that way. Brendan asked me if I'd been slipping tranquilizers into Brian's coffee, but, fuck, I wish it were that simple. I don't know what's come over him, but he's been more in the holiday spirit than I ever thought Brian Kinney could possibly be. For instance, Brendan, Sean, and Brian did the mandatory tour of Pittsburgh, and had lunch at the Esquire, with Brian and Sean fighting over who would pay (Sean, amazingly, won). Then, that evening, the four of us walked around Liberty, and showed Sean the highlights of gay Pittsburgh. Sean was so cool too. I swear a bunch of guys were cruising him and he was laughing and asking us if he should go for it. I think Brendan was a little scandalized, but, somehow, Sean is different than most straight guys … especially straight _fathers_. And while all of this has been going on, like I say, Brian has been an angel.  
  
Okay, I don't want to be misleading about this. He's still Brian. For instance, he hung a sprig of mistletoe over the bed. Then he changed the rules about what happens when you're caught under it, rules that involve sucking and fucking. Let's just say I am one happy gay boy and leave it at that. Then there's his behavior today, with all the parents around. Okay, "all" makes it sound like a lot when it's just Sean and my mom, but it'd only have to be my mom to put a definite damper on any sexual "shenanigans," as my Grandma Mary would say. Mom's still not exactly Brian's best friend, although I think she's warming up to him. Today, though, Brian finds himself limited to one of those chaste _non_ -French kisses or an arm around my shoulders, and, being Brian, he doesn't like that, at all. So ever since 11:00 a.m., when our guests began to arrive, he's been engaging in stealth groping. For instance, he's standing behind the stainless steel counter right now helping me replenish the buffet with one hand while the other one is massaging me through my jeans. All the time he's doing it, he has this innocuous expression on his face, an expression that'd fool anyone watching him.   
  
"Stop," I murmur although it feels _so_ good. "I won't be able to go back into the living room."  
  
"Head for the bathroom," he whispers as he lays out more bagels. "I'll meet you there."  
  
"You are so bad. I can't fuck you with my mom in the loft!"  
  
"That's good because I'll be the one doing the fucking." He leers at me and I bat his hand away when he tries to resume his activities.  
  
Like I said, he's _still_ Brian.  
  
"Come on, boys. Let's open presents!" Mom calls and Brian gives me his obligatory how-could-you-have-done-this-to-me? look before we head back.   
  
Sean and Mom seemed to have called each other this morning because both are dressed in their preppy best. Mom has on a "winter white" pants suit with a red sweater underneath the jacket, and a red, green, and creamy white scarf. She looks gorgeous. Sean, meanwhile, is wearing a green turtleneck sweater and a pair of dark trousers, and looks fuckin' handsome especially with his brilliant white hair. In fact, I might be mistaken, but Mom seems to like him, a lot. They've been yakking ever since they were introduced. It's funny given how much older he is than Mom, but I can't say anything against _that_ , can I?  
  
Brendan, Brian, and I, of course, are wearing jeans or, in my case, cargoes, but we're the younger generation. And then, though I hate to mention it, there's my bratty kid sister, Molly. She's wearing some frou-frou red-and-green dress I'm sure Mom picked out for her, and she likes Sean too, but then, he's been fussing over her ever since she came through the door. Sean is just a people person, that much seems clear, although he's backed off a little bit on hugging Brian so maybe Brendan talked to him.  
  
We start opening gifts and some of it is what you'd expect. Brendan and I get clothes, DVDs, books, and the like from our parents. Mom gives fudge and cookies to everyone except Brian. She gives him a shirt, a gorgeous two-tone blue number from Calvin Klein, but I picked it out and warned him it was coming, so he's "surprised" and gracious. Sean has gifts for every single person including Molly, but he once again engages in one of his warm and sincere moments when he gives Brian a framed photo of Brendan as a child. It's amazing to watch Brian's face because he doesn't have a defense against Sean going all "dad" on him. After that, it becomes clear that photos are the gift item of the day. I give Brian and Brendan the picture I took of them the first time Brendan was here as they stood in front of one of the huge loft windows, talking. I made it sepia-toned and enhanced the light coming through the window just a tiny bit so it doesn't look like a brand-new photo, but something timeless. Brendan, I think for an instant, is going to cry, he loves it so much. Then _he_ gives both Brian and Jennifer pictures of _me_. That, I wasn't expecting. It's the ones he took in front of his apartment and I look … well, the one Mom has, I look like her sweet son, but the one Brian has, I look more complex, older, even kind of "deep" ... which I like. I think Brian likes it too because he stares at it a long time and there's an odd little smile on his face as he does.   
  
Brian has gifts for everyone except me. He already told me he wasn't giving me his gift in front of other people, which makes me wonder what he's gotten me. A sex toy? But he does have something special for Brendan, and, yeah, it's another photo. His, though, is clearly the hit of the day, at least as far as Brendan is concerned.  
  
Brendan has an online photo gallery that houses his professional work, but also has a locked section that has family photos—I've seen it, and there are hundreds of pictures there. Anyway, he gave Brian access to that and Brian did the most amazing and wonderful thing. He took a photograph of Brendan at eight years old and he manipulated it with one of himself at that age. Brian put them together as children and if you didn't know the story, you'd swear that's what you were looking at: Brendan and Brian side by side, both looking at the camera, both with goofy smiles in place, twin brothers caught in a casual moment. I see photo manips all the time, and there's nothing in the one Brian did that gives it away—it's really seamless. It even looks a little faded like a photo from the seventies would. Plus, you can tell the brothers apart so you know you're looking at twins not one photo being duplicated. It's full of their unique personalities and looks for all the world like they're standing together, interacting even as they stare at the camera.  
  
When Brendan unwraps this gift, he sits there staring at it for the longest time before he lowers his head, one hand pinching his mouth like he's trying to maintain control. Everyone stops what they're doing because it's obvious how moved Brendan is. He finally looks over at Brian who is on the couch, and Brendan has tears in his eyes. When he blinks, one of them rolls down his cheek. I'm holding my breath because this is so over-the-top emotionally I wonder if Brian will be able to handle it, but he just smiles when Brendan thanks him. Later, after everyone's done, he even lets Brendan give him a big hug.   
  
If I weren't there to see it with my own eyes, I never would've believed it.   
  
Around 2:00, Lindsay shows up to drop off Gus who, we're told, has just had a nap and is in fine form. Before long, he's the life of the party, and has all the adults on the floor crawling around, chasing him, playing peek-a-boo, and helping him have fun with his new toys. Brian, who's already set a world record for number of mellow hours in one day, tickles Gus and laughs with him like he doesn't give a fuck who sees this softer side of him. Sean advances himself a few notches on Brian's like/dislike scale when he falls madly in love with the little guy.   
  
By 6:00, we've had an impromptu dinner that wasn't in the program, one prepared by Mom, with Sean's help. It wasn't hard since I guess I went a little overboard at the grocery store and bought enough food for a month, including a small spiral sliced ham and a few side dishes from the gourmet section that only needed to be warmed up. Everyone is stuffed by the time we're finished and the only ones still moving are Gus and Molly … oh, and me. I'm in the bathroom, in fact, when Brian comes in and closes the door behind him. I'm washing my hands and look at him in the mirror as he comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. "Do you realize you've been involved in Christmas activities _all day_?" I ask him as he kisses my neck.  
  
He looks at me in the mirror, and our eyes meet. "I'm going to bend you over the countertop right now and fuck you 'til you scream," he whispers at my ear.  
  
Both me and my cock love those words, but I know he won't do it. He has everyone in the other room eating out of his hand, and even Brian isn't going to risk that for a quick fuck. Nonetheless, when he slips his hand down the front of my pants and strokes me, I'm ready to forget either one of us being sensible. "Oh, God, Brian, what're you doing?"  
  
He nibbles at the back of my neck. "I thought it was apparent."  
  
As my pants slips down to the floor, I moan. "You can't do this," I murmur as I begin to move in rhythm with his hand.  
  
"No, I can't." His hot breath against my ear makes me shiver. "Not now. But I'm going to do it soon … very soon."  
  
And in a day that's been more perfect than I could ever imagine, that's just what he does. Oh, it takes another three hours. We have to eat the cake and cookies Mom brought and drink Brian's expensive coffee. Sean and Brian have to discuss whether there really is a crystal meth crisis in the gay community. Brendan, Brian, and I have to talk about photography while Mom and Sean talk about private versus public schools, homophobic parents, and real estate values in Spokane. Lindsay has to return to retrieve a sleepy Gus and stand around talking to Sean and Brendan. By the time everyone finally decides they've overstayed their welcome, it's going on 9:00.   
  
Like I said, we're a huge, fuckin' success.  
  
After I walk Mom and Molly to the car, I come back to the loft to find Brian rolling joints. "You don't waste any time," I say with a laugh and begin to gather up plates, cups, saucers, and silverware to put into the dishwasher.  
  
Brian, who has been drinking wine all day, is a little tipsy, but nothing serious. He puts one joint behind his ear while he lights another. Walking unhurriedly around the loft, he begins to switch off lights. "Aren't you forgetting something?"   
  
I scrape cake into the trashcan and watch him sauntering from lamp to lamp. "No, I don't think so. You promised me a fuck. I'm assuming you'll keep that promise."  
  
"Good boy." He takes a deep hit on the joint and comes to stand next to me, turning me in his direction before he clamps his mouth over mine.  
  
As he shotguns, I inhale deeply.  
  
"But that's not what I meant," he says when he pulls back and favors me with a languid smile.  
  
I don't think I've ever seen him so relaxed and wonder how that'll translate in the love making … and, yeah, maybe that's exactly what it'll be, _love making_ instead of fucking. "What did you mean?" I put my arms around his waist and run my hand over his muscled back, forgetting all about the dirty dishes. "You've been trying to do me all day so I thought—"  
  
"And I will do you, believe me I will." With an elaborate gesture, he checks his watch. "Hmm, I think probably three times if all goes well."  
  
I kiss the hollow of his neck, inhaling his cigarette-wine-expensive-French-soap scent. "So, what did you mean?"  
  
"Your Christmas gift."  
  
"Oh, fuck! I forgot all about that! Where is it? Parked on the street? Or in a little velvet box?" I'm jumping up and down now, grabbing his arm, doing the whole kid thing. "Does it involve diamonds or gold or platinum?"  
  
"You're dreaming." Brian grabs my hand and pulls me to the bedroom where he sits me down on the bed's edge and hands the joint to me. "Don't move." He disappears back down the steps and returns with a big box wrapped in gold paper and tied with one of those beautiful satin bows—obviously a professional job since wrapping presents is not one of Brian's gifts. A _heavy_ box. He sits down next to me and takes back the joint, inhaling until there's nothing but a nub, which he crushes out. "Go on, open it."  
  
I've already kicked off my shoes and taken off my socks because I know where we'll end up. I'm beginning to feel as woozy as Brian, but that doesn't stop me from tearing the beautiful paper on the box. It's too heavy for clothing, but I can't think of any electronic gadget that fits the box shape and size. Cookware? No, he'd never do that and I'd kill him if he did. Smiling at Brian, I quickly pull off the top and push aside tissue paper to see … boxer shorts. But not just any boxer shorts, silk ones: red, green, blue, white, and yellow. Five pair of silky-to-the-touch boxer shorts.  
  
Okay. Not exactly what I had in mind, but not bad either—kind of sexy, maybe even romantic.   
  
"Uh, thank you. That's … nice," I tell him and notice the satisfied smile on his face. What's making him so happy? I don't even wear boxer shorts. But there's more stuff underneath the boxers so I forge on and find … massage oil. Not what we normally use, though, but the all-natural, water-based, flavored kind: cherry, strawberries  & champagne, chocolate, lime, and vanilla. Five bottles of massage oil. There's also five bottles of flavored lube: passion fruit, cinnamon, cherry, raspberry, and strawberry. What the fuck, is he giving me a fruit salad?   
  
I swallow once, hard, as the next level is revealed, which is _also_ sex products: chocolate flavored body finger paints, strawberry whipped lotion, Aloe vera bubble bath, lemon warming oil, and raspberry body gel. By this time, I have a definite sinking feeling. I like sex, of course, and I love Brian, but is _this_ what he's gotten me for Christmas? After such a wonderful day with family and friends, he's giving me sex products? It seems a little under-whelming and almost, well, embarrassing. Fuck, he gave Brendan a thoughtful, amazing gift, but he can't do the same with me?  
  
Okay, don't get me wrong. I'm sure everything here will translate into bedroom delight. The finger paints, for instance, sound like a great idea. I can see myself designing a masterpiece on Brian's body right before I lick it off. Experimenting with stuff like that is fun, but, fuck, it just isn't what I imagined Brian giving me as a first time ever gift. I guess he's right about me being romantic because I sure as shit thought he might come through with something more appropriate for a crazy eighteen year old who's so over-the-top in love with him.   
  
And what the fuck is his fetish with the number five? Everything's five! That makes no sense at all, but I'm not going to ask him because I don't want to sound ungrateful. Somehow, I have to be gracious about all of this.  
  
Not meaning to, I sigh.  
  
"There's more," Brian says with that same smile. God, he's blind to the impact he's having!  
  
"What's the next layer? Dildos? Butt plugs?" I snap out, not meaning to. Shit, so much for being gracious.  
  
He takes a moment to check out my expression and I think we're about to have a little discussion, but then he goes right back to the goofy face. Wine and weed will do that to you. "Just dig a little deeper."  
  
So, I dig. And that's when it's gets very weird. I find sunscreen, SPF 45, in the next layer, and it's not edible or fruit-flavored and there aren't five of them. _Sunscreen_? There's also a blue and green wool scarf that must be cashmere because it's downy soft to the touch. Well, that'll go well with the boxer shorts, won't it? And, along with the scarf, there's fuckin' wool socks—surprise!—five pair of them, which I never, ever wear so why in hell is he giving me these bizarre items you'd only use if you were going camping or fishing or—  
  
My breath catches in my throat. Gaping at the outdoor clothing, things suddenly click into place inside my childish, self-centered brain. Jerking up my head, I stare at Brian with wide eyes. "You-this—is this …?  
  
"Keep going."   
  
I look back at the box and its absurd contents, which are now scattered around me on the bed, my heart beating so fast I fear it'll bang against my ribcage. Digging into the box once more, I come to the bottom, and my hand closes around something, a paper something like a flyer or brochure. I pull it out.  
  
It's a little folder with the words "Concord Travel" on it.  
  
Again, I look at Brian, who is grinning like a crazy fool. With shaking hands, I open up the folder and stare at the contents inside.  
  
Hotel reservations and airline tickets.   
  
In my name and Brian's.  
  
For _five_ nights.  
  
In Vermont.  
  
In fuckin' _Vermont_!  
  
I let out a whoop and grab Brian around the neck, the box and some of the bottles sliding from the bed and spilling onto the floor. "You're taking me to Vermont? You are, aren't you? You're taking me!" I've pressed him back onto the bed and kiss his face repeatedly. "Thank you, thank you!" I say between kisses. "I only mentioned it that one time, and it was months ago, but you did it! You really did it!"  
  
Brian throws back his arms and lets me have my way with him, smiling up at me. "Yeah, I'm pretty awesome."  
  
I kiss him on the mouth and throw a little tongue into it. "You're more than awesome, you're stupendous! You're amazing! You're fantastic!"  
  
He stretches, arching his body as he does, a deep groan of satisfaction coming from him. "I am, aren't I?" He looks up at the ceiling and seems to drift off into a daydream. "Gonna take Sunshine up to Killington for five days and fuck the shit out of him." He reaches for the joint behind his ear and sticks it into his mouth. "Gonna use every single one of those products too," he says in a faraway voice, the joint jiggling as he talks. He pushes a hand into his jeans pocket and pulls out a lighter, lighting the joint and inhaling deeply. "Gonna think about Sunshine wearing those boxers all day long while we're out on the slopes … how the silk slides against his soft skin, how there's nothing to restrain his cock and balls, how everything's gonna hang free."  
  
He's making me hard just listening to him. I still can't believe he remembered our conversation about snowboarding and put together this package. It's all so incredibly thoughtful and romantic and fuckin' sexy that it takes my breath away. I remove the joint from his hand and take a hit, holding the smoke deep in my lungs as long as I can. "Then what happens when we return to our room that night?" I ask as I pass the joint back, stroking his face, planting little kisses there. I'm falling into a place of warm sensuality, a place where only Brian and I exist, a place I love.   
  
Watching me with half-closed eyes, Brian smokes. "We're cold from being outdoors for so many hours." His voice is husky and deep. "And we're horny, very horny. As soon as we get back to our room, you take off your clothes and want to get under the covers. You beg me to warm you up."  
  
I sit back on my legs. Making sure he's watching, I strip off my sweater with slow movements, running my hands over my chest, arms, and stomach. "Brrr, I'm freezing," I say in a low voice as I hug myself, then slide my hand inside my pants, grasping my half-erect cock. I stroke softly, my eyes never leaving his gaze. It doesn't take long before I'm stiff and ready to go. Pushing back on my feet, I stand up and teasingly slip down my pants and briefs, one side at a time until I can kick them out of the way. Doing a little dance, I turn around and sway my hips, shaking my ass at Brian.  
  
Brian puts out the joint and lies there, arm propping his head, watching me dance, chuckling when I do a couple of pirouettes. Lifting his arms, he pulls off his sweater and tosses it aside. He does the same thing with his jeans, but when he throws them onto the floor, he retrieves one of the massage oil bottles, pitching it onto the bed. Then he returns his focus to me, holds out a hand, and, when I take it, pulls me down, rolling me onto my back until he's kneeling, positioned between my spread legs. Staring at me, his eyes almost black with lust, he finds the massage oil and squirts a little into his hands. The scent of fresh strawberries with just a hint of champagne fills the air, and I marvel at how natural it smells. Brian rubs it between his hands and then leans forward, running his hands up my thighs, his palms pressing into my flesh with gentle pressure as he massages. He does it again, going down my legs, his fingers kneading, the sweet scent wafting up to me. "You're so cold," he whispers, working his way back up my legs, then bypassing my straining cock. "I've got to warm you up."  
  
Letting out a disappointed moan, I try to arch my back, but he's holding me down. "Yes, warm me up," I manage as his hands slip onto my stomach and linger there for a slippery moment, rotating in soft circles. I cup his face and begin to urge him toward me as he slides his hands up my chest, big hands spread out over me as he works at my pecs and lats. "Thank you," I whisper when he covers me with his body, although he's not putting his full weight on me. "It's an awesome gift. Really awesome."   
  
Thanks to the oil, his body slides against my body and he uses that in a gentle massage, thrusting his cock against mine. "For warming you up?"  
  
"Taking me to Vermont. Going with you … that's the best gift, ever."  
  
He covers my mouth with his and kisses me so hard my toes curl. "You might not think so after five days trapped in a room being fucked by me."  
  
"I love being fucked by you."  
  
Brian's gaze is fixed on me. His lips just grazing, he kisses me, nips my bottom lip lovingly, and then rolls off, lying on his side, his face close to mine as he continues to stare.   
  
I turn onto my side so I can look at him and see his thoughts reflected in his eyes, deep, highly personal thoughts right there for me to behold though he'll never say them aloud. He reaches for me, fingers laced in my hair as he runs a thumb down the side of my face, gaze still unflinching. Slowly, the expression in his eyes softens his entire face, and I see him stripped of his normal mask, raw and exposed in a way he never is. Holding my breath, I wonder if I've ever seen him this way before and think of the prom. I still don't have many memories of that night but there might have been a moment then, a moment like this. "I love everything about you," I tell him in a voice that trembles. "I always have, since the first time I saw you."  
  
He keeps staring, his thumb stroking, his face so full of emotion it almost hurts to look at him. Then he turns and reaches into the bedside table drawer, coming back with a condom and some lube. Without breaking eye contact, he reaches down and rubs my dick, his hand so practiced he soon has me even harder than before. He gives me one last pull then leans in to kiss me. When he pulls back, he has a soft smile on his face. "Here's your other gift," he whispers up against my mouth, and hands both the condom and the lube to me. Then, grabbing another pillow, he turns over, stuffing both pillows under himself as he gets into position.  
  
For a thunderstruck second, I don't understand. It's too big, too wonderful, too unimaginable. I start to question him, my lips trembling as I try to form words that won't come, but quickly stop. No, I can't put it into words, can I? That'd be the exact _wrong_ thing to do in an instant like this. I have to go with the flow and just do it. After all, I've been a top before. It's not like I'm ignorant. I had a little experience when I was King of Babylon. Plus, Brian taught me many tricks when we were doing threesomes and foursomes. I take a deep breath. I can do this. Of course, I can.  
  
My head swimming from the rush of emotions that assail me, I grab the lube and squirt a generous amount on my fingers, warming it before I prepare him. My breathing is deep and only gets deeper when I work in the lubricant, trying to be gentle and sexy and in control all at the same time, like Brian would be, like he always is. He's quiet beneath me, shifting to give me better access, moaning into the pillow so I know I'm not hurting him. I can't believe this is happening, that he trusts me enough to let me do this, that we've reached a place in the relationship where this is even possible. Who tops Brian Kinney? No one. No one that I know. Certainly not at Babylon or Woody's although, yeah, maybe online, there might have been someone he summoned to the loft for that purpose, someone I know nothing about. Now, though, it's me, a kid he's trusting with this thing, and I know I'll never tell anyone, not a soul, not even Daph. It's just between him and me, like a lot of things have been for us. Because, even though he won't say it, even though he won't admit it to me or even to himself, we're a couple. We're partners. And that's precisely the message he's sending.  
  
_Thank you. God, thank you, Brian_ ," I think with fervent love as I finish preparing both of us. _I won't let you down. I swear I won't._  
  
When I'm ready, I position myself and, going slow, push into him, the amazing sensation that starts at my cock and pours through my whole body so unbelievably wonderful I fear I'll shoot right there and then. God, he's so tight and it's _Brian_ , the man I love—the only man I've ever loved—and I'm making love to him, showing him what he means to me with _my_ body deep inside his! I gasp at the thought and push a bit more and he groans aloud, his arms clutching the pillow. I push again and I'm buried deep, lights dancing before my eyes at the visceral rush of passion and emotion that overwhelms me. I lay my head down to kiss his shoulder, thrusting as I do, gasping, lost in a moment that's rapidly building, that's not going to last long. "I love you," I murmur in a voice that shakes with each word. "Brian? Do you hear me? God, I love you so much!"  
  
After that, all thoughts cease and I freefall into that dizzying chasm of intense sensuality that opens up to consume both Brian and me until we're sweaty and rutting and moaning for a release that builds and builds to impossible levels, that seems to taunt us and deny us, yet hold us fast in its seductive grasp, that finally, when it seems like we can't stand it one second longer, gives us a mind-blowing instant of orgasmistic pleasure.   
  
I shout.   
  
I think Brian does too.  
  
Afterwards, we lay there and I continue to kiss his shoulder, breathing hard, the smell of strawberries and come and sweat all around me. I know for an absolute fact that was the greatest fuck of my life … with me being the top, of course. Brian is barely moving, so with reluctance, I pull out of him, discard the condom, and roll onto the bed. I peek at his face and find his eyes closed. "You okay?" I whisper, worried he's embarrassed or pissed or somehow thinks he did the wrong thing.  
  
He opens his eyes long enough to gaze at me. Then they close. "Yeah …" he says in a soft voice that's filled with contentment, "… couldn't be better."  
  
Smiling, I let myself drift off to sleep, three words, and three words alone on my lips:   
  
Best. Christmas. Ever.

 


	21. Chapter 21

[ ](http://photobucket.com)

~ 21 ~  
  
_Okay, the problem is, I thought I was the fucked up one. I thought I'd be the drunk and raging one every single time._  
  
"So, you're saying I can't have the time off?"  
  
I've just given Ted, Emmett, Michael, and Ben their breakfast, and returned to where Debbie is standing near the cash register to continue our "discussion," if you can call it that. It's two days after Christmas, but the first time I've been to work. I had a feeling Deb would be difficult about my vacation plans, but I never dreamed she'd be this big a bitch. "I don't understand what the problem is," I say to her now in my politest voice, holding back on the anger I feel. "I've covered all but one shift during the five days I'll be gone and I think—"  
  
Her face wrinkles in an unflattering way. "I don't give a shit what you think, Sunshine. You're here to work and that's what you ought to do." She snaps her gum and tidies up the area so she won't have to look me in the eye. "People usually plan their time off in advance, or have you forgotten that?"  
  
"You're being vindictive." I can't help it, I have to point out the truth. "You're still pissed about Christmas day so you'll take it out on me."  
  
"'Take it out on you?' How about what you're taking out on _me_?" Debbie jabs a thumb toward her chest. "I've been your biggest supporter from the very beginning and now you don't give a fuck about me or my business? It might be time for you to grow up, Justin!"  
  
I don't even flinch. We've been over this too many times for that. My gaze is level as I stare at her. "You know, when I first met you, I used to keep quiet when you were cussin' at Brian. I'd try to become invisible because I thought, in some ways, he deserved it, I thought he could give as good as he got." I pick up one of the green-haired trolls sitting near the cash register, stroking its soft, pliable body as my voice drops. "But now that I've been around him so much, now that I've seen the pain he tries to hide at the way he's treated, now that I've seen the difference in him ever since Brendan came along—"  
  
Debbie makes a sound, a hiss or maybe it's a gasp, and turns on her heel, going behind the counter to the pass-through that looks into the kitchen. But my mom doesn't call me a bulldog for nothing because as soon as Debbie walks away, I slam down the fuckin' troll and follow.  
  
"I've said all I have to say," Debbie snaps as she takes an order from Leon and turns toward me. "Move."  
  
The smell of frying bacon assails me. "Not until you give me an answer," I tell her, ignoring the way my stomach rolls over.  
  
"I gave you one already!"  
  
"You're _not_ giving me the time off—that's your answer?"  
  
Debbie widens her eyes. "I know it's hard to believe, but sometimes you're not going to get what you want. Move!"  
  
"That's not fair, Deb. It's one thing to make a business decision, but all you're doing is—"  
  
Suddenly, Michael is there, arms akimbo as he leans across the counter. "Would you cut it out?" he hisses, his teeth clenched. "I swear to God, I'll—"  
  
"—you'll what, Michael?" I look from one to the other, loving it when they double-team me. "Come around the counter and kick my ass? I'm having a discussion with your mother, in case you hadn't noticed, and I'd appreciate it if you'd butt out."  
  
"You know, they say people start to resemble one another after they've been together for a while." Michael leans even closer, his eyes narrowing. "I sure as shit think that's true with you and Brian."  
  
"That'd break your heart, wouldn't it? I'm sure _you_ want to be the one who resembles Brian." I focus my attention back on Debbie because Michael is baiting me and, fuck, I'm letting him. "So, that's what you're telling me? I just want to be clear about this."  
  
"That you have an obligation to me and this diner, an obligation you can't shirk the minute it suits your fancy? Yeah, that's what I'm saying.  
  
"And the fact that in the past you've always been willing to work with me and whatever my schedule has been, that doesn't play into this?"  
  
"What a blow to the kid from the 'burbs!" Michael interjects. "Real life rears its ugly head!"  
  
Debbie ignores her son. "I'm saying I'm not going to coddle you anymore."  
  
I manage a strangled breath. "Yeah, Deb, I've really been coddled, coming in at 6:00 a.m. when you call me at 5:30, frantic because you need help. Staying for two or even three shifts when you're shorthanded. Rushing back from school or even fucking cutting a class in order to be here. Real coddled!" The fury makes my arms and legs tingle and I wish there was someone or something to hit. I pull at the ties on my apron and jerk the thing over my head. "Congratulations. You wanted to get rid of me, you succeeded. I hope you're happy." Throwing the apron on the floor, I turn away, pausing only to grab my things from a shelf under the counter. "I quit."  
  
"You can't do that! You're leaving me understaffed!"  
  
"Yeah?" I look over my shoulder and our eyes meet. "Just watch me."  
  
And with that, I walk out the door.  
  
***  
Even after we finish lunch and are heading back to my apartment, Dad is _still_ talking about Kelly. The problem, of course, is that they met on more than one occasion and Dad liked him—he liked him a lot. It's ironic since the reason Kelly and I broke up is because of Dad's white-picket-fence lifestyle … the one I want to have in any serious relationship. But do you think that deters Dad? Hell, no!  
  
"He's called three times," he says as we walk along the stone path that leads to my apartment's front door. "And he could not have been nicer."  
  
My head is down, my hands shoved deep in my pockets. I have to go out in another hour to meet Liza Butera, one of the _The Pittsburgh Times'_ best reporters, who's doing a story on Marco Piermarini's new restaurant that's opening this summer. She doesn't strike me as a "lifestyle" kind of reporter but apparently, Piermarini is a big hometown hero and only gets the best. And my thoughts ... well, they're not good. Fuck, ever since Christmas it seems like things have gone downhill. Isn't that always the case? There's a yin/yang thing that goes on. You know, too much happiness makes the pendulum swing in the other direction. At least that's the way it seems to me, which would surprise Brian since he thinks I'm Little Brennie Sunshine. Not today. My father … I love my dad no matter what he's trying to do so I answer him gently. "Dad, I told you to tell him you've given me his message and leave it at that."  
  
"You need to talk to him." Dad waits while I unlock my door.  
  
"I'll talk to him when I'm ready." Going inside, I take off my jacket and turn around to face Dad. "Please, can we talk about something else? I know you like him, but I'm the one who has to make the decision, right?" Dad is giving me that I'm-your-father-and-I-know-what's-best look, the one I _love_ , but I ignore my knee-jerk reaction.   
  
"I just think you're a little obsessed with this whole domestic thing," Dad says in that deceptively mild voice of his. "I mean, yes, of course, it's a nice thought that you'd end up with someone who'd want kids, but I'm not sure it's the number one thing you should be concerned about when—"  
  
Oh, shit. I love this man, but he can be as infuriating as anyone else when he sets his mind to something. "Dad, I've been over this about a million times. Give it a break, please."  
  
Dad stares at me and I know that lawyer's mind of his; he's gearing up for a different approach. Right then, though, someone knocks on the door. Thank God. Maybe Mrs. Zimmerman needs me to make a grocery store run. In about two seconds, I go around Dad and open the door.  
  
It's Lindsay, who displays an immediate, bright smile. "You _are_ home!"  
  
"Hi." I open the screen door, glad I have a chaperone—which is a ridiculous thought. "Yeah, Dad and I just came back from lunch."  
  
"Oh, Mr. Connelly … Sean. Hi."  
  
Some pleasantries are exchanged while I wonder what she's doing here. The benefit is tomorrow night and I'm already nervous as hell about the whole thing. It's always at this point in the art show game that I decide I'm in the wrong line of work and everyone's going to find it hard to keep a straight face when they view my photos. Am I a little insecure? You bet. I don't have Brian's cool, that's for sure.   
  
"You've done a terrific job putting the show together," Dad tells Lindsay. I took him over to the gallery yesterday to see the set-up, although he'll be there tomorrow when the exhibit opens. "I was very impressed."  
  
Lindsay's wearing a deep purple sweater and skirt set that clings to her figure in a way I can't ignore especially when she slips out of her coat. "Thank you!" she says to Dad with a little blush, and pulls something out of the briefcase she's set on the coffee table. "I just couldn't wait to show this to you, Brendan!" She's so excited she's almost twinkling. "Remember, I told you the printer was late in getting it to us? Well, it just arrived!" She waves something in my face.  
  
"The promo booklet?" I ask, coming a little closer.  
  
"Yes! And look at the great job they did with your section!"  
  
I smile at her excitement. Both Dad and I stand close as she turns pages until she comes to my photos. Immediately, I'm taken aback because, shit, it does look good. I gave them a recent headshot, one where I'm looking more like Brian than myself. A friend in New York did it, and his girlfriend, who's a make-up artist and hairdresser, was the stylist. Plus, my photos … well, maybe they aren't that bad.  
  
"Ha!" Dad sighs with great satisfaction, clasping my shoulder. "You're already the star of the show!"  
  
Of course, he'd say that, but still, I have to smile. "It looks good. Thanks for bringing it by, Lindsay."  
  
"What're you talking about? It looks _great_!" Lindsay says, shaking the booklet with great enthusiasm.   
  
After that, she and Dad go off on some fantasy about how I'll be the next Jackson Wallick and what I should say when _National Geographic_ calls. It gets sillier, then Dad asks about Gus and learns that he's with a babysitter because Mel is out of town. They spend a few minutes talking about children, which just makes me think about Kelly and become miserable all over again. Finally, Dad decides he needs to leave. We say our good-byes and he's gone out the door in the blink of an eye. Of course, he doesn't know my concerns about Lindsay, and I'm sure not going to tell him. I'm not telling anyone because it's the kind of thing that, maybe, is all in my head. When she asks to use the bathroom after he's gone, though, I relax a bit, thinking she'll soon leave. Minutes later, I hear her boots clacking in the small hallway just off the living room, but she doesn't emerge right away.  
  
"I see you have your own darkroom," she says when she finally does.  
  
There's a tiny room next to the bathroom that I use. "Yeah, I do, although I don't always develop my own work. It depends on the deadline and how much film I've shot."  
  
She's standing in front of me, arms crossed. "Did Brian give you the name of a good film processing place?"  
  
"Uh, yeah, he did, but I know how to use the machine so sometimes they just let me do it myself."  
  
"He's good for that."  
  
"Brian? Yeah, well, photography is an integral part of his business too."  
  
"He's a good photographer."  
  
"He is." Why we're suddenly on Brian, I don't know. "He's been very helpful."  
  
She makes a face that's a little mischievous, and a little serious too. "Just don't … believe everything he says."  
  
Oh, fuck. What does that mean? "Like what?"  
  
"Oh, things like … well, personal relationships would be a good example. While he's a real expert when it comes to manipulating images, I wouldn't say the same about his views on people."  
  
She's talking about the discussion Brian and I had that day over at the gallery, about my bi-sexuality. I know that instinctively. He told me then if I was attracted to guys, that's the direction I ought to go and to hell with everything else. Being Brian, he took a straightforward and practical approach, one that left no room for doubt. I know I ought to confront her and get this thing out in the open, but that's not my style. "Uh, what views on people do you mean?"   
  
Lindsay steps closer and, to my surprise, lays a hand on my shoulder, her gaze fastened on mine as her fingers tighten. "He tends to be very slanted in his … sexuality," she says, tiptoeing with care into the subject.  
  
Fuck, I don't have the time or the inclination to get into this. If I'm not there when Liza reaches Piermarini's half-finished restaurant it'll be insulting to her since she asked for me specifically. "You mean Brian's pro-gay? That's not a surprise. You are too, right?" Okay, I say it a little pointedly, wondering if she'll 'fess up to overhearing our conversation because it's beginning to piss me off.   
  
Her hand hasn't moved from my shoulder and now it's not my imagination that she's close enough to invade my personal space. "Of course," she whispers, but everything about her demeanor is denying the notion that she's out and proud. "I just …"  
  
For a breathless instant, neither of us moves. Anything can happen and I'm aware of that yet don't budge, frozen like the proverbial deer in the headlights. Shit, she cannot be doing what I think she's doing, yet she's so close I smell her lavender scent, I see clearly the blue of her eyes, I could touch the smooth skin of her cheek. Even if I _were_ attracted to her, nothing can happen between us, ever. Why the hell doesn't she see that? Or am I imagining everything? But, shit, no, she moves again, very subtly, and I realize if I don't act, we're going to be in the middle of a messy scene.   
  
"Well!" I speak with that phony brightness people affect in a moment like this, and turn away from her as I pretend to look for my camera bag. "Thanks for bringing the promo piece. I appreciate that." I grab the bag, my light meter, jacket, and car keys. "I've got an assignment, so I need to get out of here before I get in trouble."  
  
"Brendan—"  
  
I'm at the door, pulling it open. "I guess I'll see you tomorrow night," I say in a firm voice.  
  
She gives me a defeated look that's masked behind her normal gentility, then gets her coat and walks through the door. "See you then."  
  
I watch as she strides down the stone path and want to bang my head against the doorjamb. Fuck! First, there's Dad with his Kelly diatribe and now this? Brian's being grumpy, and my boss nearly bit my head off this morning when I talked to him. Things are just _not_ looking up.  
  
Slamming the door, I walk toward the parking lot, stalling so Lindsay has time to leave. My thoughts are dark and I'm thinking about spending the evening with a bottle of tequila. When my cell phone rings, I check the display, which says "Out of Area." A sales call? Shit, who knows? I click it on. "Hello?"  
  
"Brendan?"  
  
I stop, suddenly frozen.  
  
It's Kelly.  
***  
I've been working on the piece for a few hours, as my hand will allow. While I do, I try not to be upset, but find it hard going. I reserved the studio and came over here to PIFA because I have an assignment due when school starts on the 21st, and I need the extra time thanks to fucking everything in my life. Now, of course, in addition to my hand killing me and the assignment being due, I don't have a job. Fucking Debbie. I can't believe she did that. What did she think I'd do? Brian wants to go away with me for the very first time ever and she won't give me the time off? Does she think I'm just going to cave and tell Brian I can't go because of my part-time job at the diner? Doesn't she know me better than that? And, although I'm loathe to admit it, it _hurts_ that she thinks so little of me that she'd let things get to that place. How many times have she and I talked about my relationship with Brian? She knows him so well and yet, as it turns out, doesn't know him at all. Yet, she used to encourage me, and cheer me up when he'd rejected me. Not anymore.  
  
Flexing my hand, I decide to take another break. The piece I'm working on is very dark, an abstract with a lot of startling black lines reaching out in all directions, lines interlaced with a few lighter colors to show I'm not totally depressed. I have no idea if it's any good, but it sure does reflect my mood. Unscrewing the top of my bottle of water, I take a long drink, and, since my stomach is rumbling, wonder if I ought to get something to eat. It's late afternoon and my last meal was breakfast at the loft. That's when I hear the door creak open at the other end of the studio and heavy footsteps. A second later, my father is walking toward me. I straighten out on the stool and couldn't be more surprised. "Hi."  
  
"Hi." He comes to where I'm sitting, a little smile on his face. Wearing a navy blue suit with a white shirt and red tie, I realize he's carrying a present—a small box wrapped in Christmas paper. Oh, shit. "So, you _are_ here."  
  
"How'd you know?"  
  
"It was on your voicemail."  
  
Then I remember. After I left the diner, I changed my message in case Brian called and wasn't able to reach me for some reason. His next call would've been to the diner, and I didn't want him blindsided. "Oh, I forgot." I'm trying to _not_ look at the present. Is it for me? Why else would he be walking around with it if it weren't? Damn, I don't have anything for him. "I'm, uh, working on a project for school."  
  
He's standing on the other side of the easel. "Do you mind if I look?"  
  
"No."  
  
He comes around and examines the picture. Great, one of the first paintings of mine he's seen and it's an abstract. Not too many people are fond of abstracts because they like to see real objects they can identify. I'm holding my breath as he looks at the painting, wondering how he'll react. "It's … gloomy," he says after a minute of this, and I'm surprised he didn't use the word "interesting," which is what most people say when they don't like something. "You're trying to express negative, uh, emotions, huh?"  
  
Next to Brian letting me top him, this has to be the most amazing thing that's happened. Dad, here, talking to me about my _art_. Shit, maybe I'm going to keel over and die soon. It seems like I'm getting all my wishes granted, although, yeah, Debbie not hating me—that one's still outstanding. "Uh, well, it's kind of an attempt to show what happened when I … when I got bashed, but I guess it reflects a lot of things including my current mood."  
  
"Having a hard day?" My father speaks in an unbelievably sympathetic voice, so sympathetic that I want to ask him where my _real_ father has gone.  
  
"Yeah, kind of." My hand stiffens as a cramp hits. "Just trying to get this thing done," I say as I massage it.  
  
He sees the gesture and that's when he holds out the gift. "Well, listen. I'm on my way to a meeting, but I wanted to drop this off. It might … maybe it'll help."  
  
I can feel the color steal into my cheeks as I take it. "Uh, thanks. I didn't—"  
  
He waves a hand and looks embarrassed. "Please. It's just … I saw it and thought of you, of what you, uh, said one time about … your classes."  
  
Intrigued, I tear at the paper, which looks like Dad actually wrapped the present, and find a small box that says, in big red letters, "Digital Voice Recorder." I glance at Dad, see his smile, and tear into the thing. Fuck, it's silver and sleek and feels great in my hand. Yeah, that's what it does: it records voices. In fact, it has a limit of 136 hours of record time, plus you can store pictures, text, and mp3 files too.  
  
"I thought it'd help with lectures. You won't have to take as many notes," Dad says, handing me the instruction manual he's fished out of the box. "You can create folders for your classes and maybe one for reminders or ideas, whatever. It just seemed like it'd be helpful."  
  
Right then, right there, something happens, something I never would've expected in a million years, something that's as shocking to me as what happened Christmas night: I feel something for my father again.  
  
Something warm.  
  
Something even son-like.  
  
Something that _might_ be love.  
  
***  
That night, I begin to think I may be the only sane one in an asylum filled with lunatics. Justin comes home and, like a bipolar kid on a candy high, he's alternating between a furious anger at Debbie and a goofy peacefulness that makes no sense whatsoever. He trails after me as I'm changing clothes, ranting about Debbie, but follows that up by sitting on my lap and kissing me long enough and hard enough to make me forget the plans I'd had to work. Shit, what is it with this kid? So, I give him his wish and fuck him until he yells my name at the top of his lungs. Once we're done, though, he falls off into a peaceful sleep. And it's not even seven.   
  
Great. So, I get my night of work after all. As I smoke a cigarette, I watch him sleep, my gaze roving over the outline of his body beneath the covers. If he were a trick, I'd wake him up and do it again, but he's not a trick and that's not a possibility especially after what fuckin' Debbie did to him today. He needs his trust in people diminished some more, doesn't he? Thanks, Deb. And the worse part is, there's nothing I can do about it.   
  
Slipping out of bed, I dress and go downstairs. In the kitchen, I find a little leftover Christmas ham and make a sandwich. Along with a bottle of water—because I need to remain clear-headed to get this shit done—I head for the computer. Soon, I'm buried deep in the preliminary ad campaign I'm developing for my friend, Christian Speers's company, Tectrus Tech.  
  
Later, when someone downstairs buzzes repeatedly, it takes me a minute to back out of my intense concentration and realize what I'm hearing. Rubbing the crick in my neck, I check the time. It's after eleven. Damn, who's at the front door at this hour? My cell's turned off and I've been letting the machine pick up the calls so maybe someone headed over here, too impatient to wait any longer? As I walk to the intercom, _Mikey_ is the first name that comes to mind. "Yeah?" I growl when I jab the button.  
  
"Lemme in," I hear someone say in a querulous voice. What the fuck? It that _Brendan_? Punching the button, I open the loft door and listen for the sound of the elevator, but what I hear instead is stumbling footsteps coming up the stairs. And a _voice_.   
  
"Traveling all the fuck over the place … thinks he's so special now … has to see me because he cares, he fuckin' cares and _now_ he wants to make it work. Oh, sure! Make it work! Come back from fuckin' everywhere and—" As he comes around the last corner, Brendan raises his head and see me. "Fuck, Brian! Everything's just …" he throws up his hands, "… fuck!"  
  
Now I'm certain the end of the world must be near. I'm sober and my ex-Boy Scout brother is stinking drunk? "What the hell are you doing here?" I ask as he staggers toward me. He's wearing nothing but jeans and a long-sleeved green shirt but ... no coat. "You didn't drive over here, did you?"  
  
"Ha!" He laughs right in my face and, oh yeah, from the fumes, it's apparent he's done some heavy drinking. "That's what I said to _you_ … pretty sure I said it … 'member? When you came to see me?"  
  
I don't remember much, but he sure as fuck does, even drunk. "Come on." I take him by the arm, pulling him into the loft. "I'll make some coffee."  
  
"Ha!" he says again, weaving unsteadily across the room after me, "I said that too! It's like-like we're doing twin stuff just 'cos we're twins." Brendan doubles over with laughter and thinks he's hilarious.  
  
"You really are hammered." I lean him against the stainless steel countertop and go around it, taking the coffee out of the freezer and looking for the filters. So, now I'm supposed to baby-sit my brother? Fuck, isn't it bad enough that I'm baby-sitting an eighteen-year-old trauma victim with romantic notions about being my "partner"? Despite appearances to the contrary, I am _not_ anyone's partner or anyone's father and I'm not going to— I turn on the faucet with a jerk. Okay, I _am_ a parent, but that fuckin' doesn't mean there's a sign outside my door for wayward youth or, for that matter, fuckin' wayward brothers. I fill the coffee pot and pour the water into the reservoir, then scoop coffee into the basket. "Why in hell are you here?" I ask Brendan.  
  
He immediately gives me a blurry frown. "Can't help how I feel," he tells me like I've just accused him of something. "Can I? Fuck, can anyone? Even you—can't help loving Justin. Do anything for him, right? Can't stop that feeling even if you wanted to."  
  
I glance over my shoulder just to make sure the kid's still asleep. "Can't help what feeling?"   
  
Elbow propped on the counter, Brendan rubs the back of his neck. "Says he's been _reflecting_ on it, that he thinks it might be something he wants—he _thinks_!—that we have to get together when he gets back." He slaps his other hand down on the counter. "When he gets back! He pops that on me and suddenly he's not gonna be 'round for … like, two months 'cos he's going to Paris and Barcelona and even fuckin' Havana, doing some stupid book on Hemingway." Brendan glances over at me. " _Hemingway_. You know he's ... a homophobe, right? Big, old homophobe prolly 'cos he was gay." He slams the hand down again. "Ha! Or maybe he was bi, like me! Hate being that way! Hate it! Gets me in fuckin' trouble with Lin—with everyone!"   
  
I pull a cup from the cupboard. "Who the fuck are you talking about?"  
  
"So he's got a _big_ opportunity to write this _big_ book about this big, big, big author and it'll be all about how _Papa_ was gay and attracted to F. Scott Fitzgerald and how Gertrude Stein says he stole her style and Jean Cocteau wanted to fuck him, and meanwhile I'm doing a fuckin' benefit in Pittsburgh and gonna be thirty-one soon and what am I?" He raised his head to address this question. "Who the hell am I? Some stupid bi-sexual fuck-up who's got no idea what he wants to do or who he wants to do it with. Some idiot caught in the asinine notion that middle-class suburbia is Mecca! Some jerk whose twin brother is a fuckin' genius, whose twin brother is good at what he does, whose twin brother knows he's gay and doesn't give a shit what anyone thinks about it! Fuck it!" He pounds the counter with his fist. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!"  
  
I come around the counter and take him by the shoulders. "You're gayer than you know," I say, a touch of grim humor there, "because you're being a major drama queen."   
  
Pushing and pulling, I walk him toward the couch, but after only a few steps, he veers off, still swaying visibly, and ends up behind my desk. Staring at all the paperwork there, he lowers himself into the chair. "Fuck!" he says again.  
  
Standing on the other side of the desk, my arms crossed, I see _two_ of him: the one in front of me and the one reflected in the full-length mirror propped up against the nearby wall. " _Who_ in hell are you talking about?" I ask because I'm getting tired of the oblique references.  
  
"Kelly."   
  
"Your ex?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"So he called to tell you he's writing a book about Ernest Hemingway and is … leaving the country?"   
  
"Temporarily." Brendan props his elbows and then covers his face with both hands. "Oh, God, what a bad day. And the show's tomorrow!" He gives his head a fierce shake. "Worse, it'll be worse, I just know it!"  
  
Right then, Justin appears at the top of the bedroom stairs, dressed, but rumpled and sleepy looking. He comes down the steps and walks toward me, his gaze on Brendan. When he stops, he raises his eyes to give me a questioning look.  
  
I shrug. "Could you get him a cup of coffee?"  
  
Justin yawns. "Sure." He turns away, heading the few feet to the kitchen.  
  
Staring down at Brendan, I assess his painful, defeated posture. Why the fuck am I in the middle of this when I have more work to do, when I'm not the one responsible for him, when there's already enough on my plate to— But … shit, how can I even ask myself these questions? I'm his brother, right? We've pretty much established that, and it's not something that's going away anytime soon. I'm his brother and I went to him when I was in a shitty place. Now, he's returning the favor. Isn't that how it works? Brothers support each other. _Families_ support each other. Somewhere out there in La-La Land, that's the ideal, and—surprise!—here it is, pushed right in my face.   
  
Okay, the problem is, I thought I was the fucked up one. I thought I'd be the drunk and raging one every single time. I thought Brendan, Mr. Stable-Family-Guy, would always take the role of emotionally healthy counselor who'd be tasked with talking down poor, fucked up Brian each time he climbed onto that roof. Isn't that what _everyone_ thinks? Apparently, we were all wrong. Apparently, even poor, fucked up Brian sometimes has to step up to the plate and do the honors. And, when I think about it, I _do_ have a little experience in this area, with Linds, with Michael, especially with Justin. I'm not a total amateur.   
  
Just then, Justin returns, cup of coffee in hand. "Thanks." I take it from him. "Go back to bed. I'll take care of this." Walking around the desk, I clear a space, pushing aside papers, and set the coffee down.  
  
Justin, however, follows me, giving his blond head a shake. "That's okay." He leans against me, his warm body close to mine. "Maybe I can help."  
  
I stare at him, but his gaze is steady. He wants to help and who am I to refuse him? Shit. It must be my imagination because it seems like that warmth of his is spreading. I feel strange, almost ... happy—something I renounced after my disgustingly sweet behavior Christmas day. I am _not_ doing that again because it makes my dick soft and I feel like a fuckin' moron afterwards. So, what's going on here? Automatically, my arm goes around Justin's waist. I hate to say it, but it seems like the more I get into this thing with both of them, the more baffling it becomes because let's be clear— there's _nothing_ here to be happy about.   
  
Nothing.  
  
Looking for clarity somewhere, anywhere, I raise my eyes and spot myself in that mirror, my arm around Justin, standing behind Brendan. And try as I might, I can't suppress two immediate thoughts:  
  
Brian-fucking-Kinney, big brother with a shoulder to cry on.  
  
And Brian-fucking-Kinney, Justin Taylor's … something. Not sure what. _Something_. Fuckin' _something_.   
  
Damn.  
  
Who would've thought it possible?


	22. Chapter 22

[ ](http://photobucket.com)

 

~ 22 ~  
  
_"He's got the whole itinerary memorized, his bags are already packed, and now …" Brian shakes his head, rolling his eyes heavenward, "you don't want to know."_  
  
Saturday morning, Brian drives a hung over Brendan back to his apartment. At least Brendan didn't drive himself over here last night and, in my eyes, that gives him a few points Brian can't claim … although I don't tell Brian that. It's early when they leave because Brendan woke up and had to immediately barf, which woke us up when the bathroom door slammed. So, by the time Brian returns, it's only about 9:30. He brings bagels, cream cheese, and coffee. We've only half-finished our breakfast, though, when the bagels are tossed aside and he starts using the cream cheese on _me_ , slathering the cold, slick stuff on my dick before he licks it off. He's horny-as-hell since he spent the night before "babysitting" his poor brother. Anyway, I am the lucky recipient of his deprivation and I don't mind one bit. Brian does his usual first-class job of fucking me into the mattress and I return the favor with one of my best blowjobs ever. It's a win-win situation and I don't even have to go to work when we're done. Lucky me.  
  
Afterwards, we're lounging in bed, Brian smoking while I lay next to him day dreaming about our coming vacation. That's when I learn for the first time Brian has a _brochure_ for this place we're going, the Inn at Snowy Mountain. An eight page, full color brochure that's been tucked away in his desk for the past two weeks because he somehow forgot about it. Sometimes, I wonder about Brian. Doesn't he realize how important something like that is to me? Here I've been trying to visualize what this place is like and all the time he's had a brochure! Oh, sure, I looked for information about the inn online, but their site was something out of the 1990s, sadly lacking in pictures and details. Apparently, the inn does so much business and is so well known in the gay community that they don't need to advertise. Anyway, I am soon lying flat on the bed, the brochure spread out before me, peppering Brian with questions.   
  
I learn a lot.  
  
For instance, on New Year's Eve there will be an elegant, full course dinner … the kind where there's more silverware than people. Not a formal dress affair, but suits will be required. Great. I _so_ love dressing up. When I voice my disapproval, though, Brian tells me if I want to be a grown-up, I ought to act like one. Okay, moving on. I don't even stick out my tongue. The inn, I discover, is a renovated mansion that's been doubled in size and, at over fifty rooms, is _huge_. There are indoor and outdoor heated pools, several Jacuzzis, a fully equipped exercise facility, a sports lounge, a casual dining room as well as a ritzier one with menu items like "Grilled Cavendish Quail Salad" and "Duck Confit." There are a bunch of commons rooms including a big screen TV one, a game room with pool, table tennis and video games, and a room with a gigantic fireplace … which we also have in _our_ room. The fireplace, I mean. In addition to all the skiing and snowboarding, the private and group lessons you can take, and the sports shop where you can buy anything you forgot to bring, the inn, it turns out, is seriously into themes—stuff to keep you entertained during the evening. Sex, obviously, is first on _that_ list, but Brian tells me there's no backroom and most of the fucking takes place in discreet places like your own room. But, damn, they sure provide the ambience. Like a Leather Night in one of the commons rooms, or the Caribbean Cruise party they're having one evening. Even in the five days we're going to be there, there's lots going on.  
  
"Wait, what's this?" I run a hand down Brian's leg, the hair tickling my palm, barely aware of what I'm doing because I'm so focused on the brochure. "Flight of Fancy. That sounds interesting."  
  
Brian stares at the ceiling, blowing smoke. "It's a fantasy night."  
  
"People do what? Talk about their fantasies?"  
  
"No, they act them out." Brian takes another hit on his cigarette and deigns to look my way. "It's sexual role playing."  
  
My eyes widen. I like the sound of that. "So … people act out their fantasies and end up fucking?"  
  
"It's a little more choreographed than that, but, yeah, that's the basic idea."  
  
I'm so excited I have to sit up. "Can we do it?" I ask him, settling into a yoga position.  
  
Brian cuts his eyes in my direction. "Like you need fantasies."  
  
"I like them just as much as anyone else."  
  
"But you don't _need_ them."  
  
"How do you know what I need? Maybe I fantasize all the time, even while you're fucking me. Maybe I can't get it up without a good fantasy."  
  
"Right." Brian crushes out his cigarette and then raises himself a little, leaning on one arm as he regards me. His hazel eyes seem to gleam, a sudden, beautiful teal color. "Justin …" he whispers, his voice low, and hoarse.  
  
My nerves tingle. "What're you doing?"  
  
Without breaking his gaze, Brian's tongue flicks out. From right to left, he licks his lower lip, moistening every inch as the tip of his tongue glides slowly across, his eyes boring into mine the whole time.  
  
With a sudden, delightful ache, I feel my cock twitch. Oh, shit!   
  
Leisurely, Brian's tongue explores his upper lip, sliding inch-by-delicious-inch across that wondrous mouth of his, lips I love to kiss, lips that plant themselves on my lips, on my neck, my nipples, my stomach, my—  
  
"Exactly!" Brian waves a hand at my half-formed woody, and flops back on the bed.  
  
I stare down at myself and, yeah, he's gotten me aroused by one simple exercise. "I'm at my sexual peak," I tell him in protest. "Why does that mean I can't have fantasies?"  
  
Brian has his arms tucked behind his head and seems amused. "Okay, you can have fantasies. Tell me one of your fantasies."  
  
I straighten out. "And we can do it at the inn?"  
  
He gives me the famous look, eyebrow cocked. "I didn't say that."  
  
"Maybe?"  
  
"Maybe."  
  
"Okay." I try to arrange my thoughts so I can make a good presentation. "Uh, you won't laugh, will you?"  
  
A tiny smile steals onto his lips, but he pushes it away. "No, I won't."  
  
"You better not!" I shove both my hands into the space created by my folded legs. "I'll bet you have fantasies too!"  
  
Brian smirks. "I live out my fantasies. Come on, spill."  
  
Knowing I'm giving him a new reason to tease me, I tell him my major, number one fantasy. In it, I'm a slave. Yeah, I know, how original, but, shit, most sexual fantasies involve some kind of D/s relationship, don't they? Anyway, I'm a slave, but at least I'm not the little-boy-lost slave like in some porn films. No, I'm a _rebellious_ slave who's _not_ being sold because I'm so damn stubborn, angry, and won't do what anyone tells me to do because, you know, I don't like being a _slave_. So, the slave trader who owns me is pissed as hell because he's losing money. Sometimes, I play right there, letting the slave trader (who looks a lot like Ben, except with more hair), beat me and fuck me until I decide I had better obey him. That's always fun. However, the more common way this goes is that I'm sold to a devastatingly handsome, rich man (yeah, it's Brian), and he tames me because he's so damn sexy I can't resist him. But there's belts, whips, rope, handcuffs, gags, or blindfolds involved because … well, why not? It's a sexual fantasy.  
  
Brian smiles when I'm finished and rolls toward me, pushing me back onto the bed and pinning my arms. He breathes in my face and the scent of coffee, cigarettes, and jizz washes over me. "I don't need a fantasy night to do that one for you, Sunshine." He's laying half on top of me, his heaviness a pleasant weight holding me down.  
  
"But it'd be different there, wouldn't it?" Yes, I'm going to persist because this thing sounds so cool. "You'd have someone play the slave trader, and you'd buy me, and then we'd—"  
  
Brian's eyes narrow, his expression grave. "No." His lips compress. "It's out of the question." He comes down hard on my mouth, his tongue instantly inside, and I know he wants to divert my attention.  
  
"Why?" I say when he pulls back even though the diversion is working and I'm ready to go. "It's because of the bashing, isn't it? You used to play rough with me, but not anymore, not since that happened. You're afraid I'll have a seizure or a flashback."  
  
The emotional shutters come down over Brian's eyes. "Just forget it, okay?"  
  
"No, that's not fair. We're going away to a place that's all about pleasure and enjoying one another and I'm being treated like a delicate little flower because of something that happened six months ago."  
  
Brian rolls off, still close to me, and stares as he touches my cheek, fingers brushing. His expression is unreadable, but the touch of his hand is gentle. "I'm _not_ tying you up and whipping you so you might as well put that out of your mind. A fantasy is one thing; real life quite another."  
  
"Okay, but couldn't we act out the other stuff? You could hold me down like you just did. And why can't it be a little rough? Aren't there rules? Don't people have special words—a safeword, isn't that what it's called?—that they use if they get upset?" He tries to kiss me again, but I turn my head. "Please, Brian, can't we even think about it? It could be fun and really, really hot."  
  
Brian lays his head down so that his face is pressed against me. He nuzzles in close, kissing the space between neck and collarbone so that I feel his warm lips there. "I'll … there's someone I can … I'll ask someone I know," he whispers against my skin.  
  
"A BDSM guy?"  
  
"No, I told you, we're not doing that shit. But the fantasy stuff … he knows a lot about that."  
  
"Why would you talk to some stranger I don't even know about personal stuff like that?"  
  
He snorts. "Well, one thing's for sure: you're already in character as the rebellious slave." He grabs me and wrestles me onto my stomach, smacking my ass. "Stop asking questions, boy! Just spread your legs for me!"  
  
"Ow!" I cry, but even this little game turns me on so much I automatically obey and soon we're entangled and sweaty and enjoying ourselves once more.   
  
However, in the back of my mind, I continue to think about that Flight of Fancy night at the inn. I'm hoping he'll talk to this guy. I'm hoping we'll end up doing it.   
  
Wouldn't that be fun?  
***  
The benefit that evening is a huge success. If my head didn't hurt so bad, I'm sure I'd be happier about it, but, as it is, I spend the night drinking nothing but water to soothe my parched throat. Nor do I attempt to eat any of the hors d'oeuvres being passed around. Why I had to drink tequila last night I'll never know. The stuff is lethal and even now, almost twenty-four hours since I started downing it, I feel like someone turned me inside out and left me to die on a rock in the sun. Yeah, a little dramatic, and certainly not a great feeling when you're supposed to be enjoying yourself.  
  
Walking around, talking to folks over the drumbeat throb in my head, I keep hearing Dad's sound bytes—his boasts to everyone he can collar, which is not necessarily a bad thing, and cheers me a little. Brian and Justin are here, too, and have been since almost the beginning, to show support, also very nice. I saw the startled looks when Brian first walked into the room. People swiveled their heads from him to me and back, and I know it would've been more amusing if I weren't so hung over. Brian, of course, is cool, handsome, and elegant in his Armani/Dolce/Gabbana/Ralph Lauren/whatever that he's wearing. Justin, meanwhile, has talked to a few people who are perusing my photos, telling them in exact art school terms what they're looking at. Already, he's sold _two_ prints. Maybe _he_ ought to be my agent.  
  
Jennifer shows up a bit later, without Molly, and I can't help but notice that she and Dad appear to be joined at the hip. If I weren't so concerned about my own situation with Lindsay, I'd be amused by the prospect of Justin and I ending up related through our parents, although I guess with Dad being in Spokane, it'd be a long distance relationship. Still, they obviously enjoy one another and chat up a storm as they stroll from picture to picture. Taton Mercer, Sidney's assistant, who inspired the event, couldn't be here tonight because he's not feeling well, but Sidney is all over the place and he's clearly pleased. He makes an eloquent speech about the Pittsburgh AIDS Project, encouraging people's support. You can see how sincerely he believes in what they're doing, which makes me glad I participated. And then, of course, there's Lindsay. She walks around looking as excited as a person can look and I think she's feeling good about how well the benefit has gone. She even managed to scare up a _lot_ of press and I'm not surprised to see a _Pittsburgh Times_ reporter and photographer there as well as press from many smaller papers. She did a great job, there's no doubt about it.  
  
Well into the second hour, Brian meanders over to where I'm standing. "You've been holding that glass of wine for a long, long time," he murmurs.  
  
My finger strokes the slender stem of the wine glass. "It's a prop."  
  
"Head feel any better?"  
  
"It's getting there." I give him a tiny glare. "Don't you ever get hung over?"  
  
"I'm too busy being hung," he says on cue and gives me a grin, eyes widening as he looks at me. "What?"  
  
"I think you're enjoying my misery."  
  
"Just celebrating the fact that you're human."  
  
"Hmm." Our relationship is a funny thing. Whenever I behave in a weak or stupid way Brian seems to warm toward me even more. It's an interesting dynamic. "So, you're leaving Monday?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Justin seems excited."  
  
Brian makes derisive sound, but it might be amusement. "He's bouncing off the walls. I don't know if I'm going to make it to Monday."  
  
That makes me grin. "Cute."  
  
"Yeah, cute to you."  
  
"Oh, come on, he's young, and it's his first vacation with you. Give him a break."  
  
"He's got the whole itinerary memorized, his bags are already packed, and now …" Brian shakes his head, rolling his eyes heavenward, "you don't want to know."  
  
I look around to make sure no one is listening, then laugh. "He's madly in love with you, passionate, beautiful, talented, and smart to boot. What more do you want, super powers?"  
  
Brian raises an eyebrow, but just then, Lindsay bustles up to us looking like she just won the lottery. "Brendan!" She grabs my arm, pulling. "There's someone who wants to meet you."  
  
"Okay." I have no idea why she's so excited, but, giving Brian a look, I walk with her around a partition. There's a group at one end of the gallery surrounding someone I can't see, but as we move closer, I'm in for a surprise. It's Marco Piermarini, the hometown sports hero and Heisman Trophy winner. Yesterday, I shot about ten rolls of film at his new restaurant, Three Rivers, where Liza interviewed him. Piermarini's the picture of a man used to being in the spotlight, tall, tan, and glowing with good health. In his forties, Piermarini is handsome in a chiseled way, his face all sharp angles and planes, his eyes black and forthright, his hair dark, curly, and longer than when he played quarterback with the Steelers. He could be a movie star, but I found him to be remarkably normal, excited like a little kid about the restaurant, chattering about the menu, the décor, the size of the flat screen TV in the sports lounge. I wonder idly if he's married as Lindsay pushes her way through the worshipful fans. "Mr. Piermarini? This is Brendan Connelly," she says the minute she has his attention.  
  
He looks at me blankly for a moment, and then I see the light go on in his eyes. "The photographer from yesterday!"  
  
"Yes, sir." I shake his hand when he offers it. "I'm all over the place."  
  
"You're more than all over the place Mr. Connelly—"  
  
"—Brendan."  
  
"Brendan. You're very gifted." He waves a hand at the wall next to him, which contains some of the portraits of people I shot on Liberty. "I'm impressed with the way you portray our city. You're not a native, are you? I think I'd know you if you were."  
  
"No, sir. I'm originally from Spokane. My brother is, though."  
  
"Brother?"  
  
"Brian Kinney."  
  
Both of Piermarini's eyebrows go up. "Of course! The resemblance is obvious, one I'm sure I would've noticed if I wasn't so vain and actually had my glasses on my face." He chuckles, the sound deep in his throat. "Well, good. Brian's agency is doing the advertising for Three Rivers. Hopefully, we can keep it in the family."  
  
That's when he tells me he wants to commission someone—a "very good photographer" is how he puts it—to photograph specific places and people in Pittsburgh, images that will go with an overall theme he's developed exploring the city's history since the time of the Renaissance. No, not _that_ Renaissance, but the one that's local to Pittsburgh. The city, of course, was a big steel town in the first half of the twentieth century and had the smog to prove it. That began to change in the 1950s. I saw some of the pre-1950 photos Piermarini has collected and they're amazing. It could be high noon in a photo from that era, yet it looked more like midnight—that's how bad the air was in those days. So, Piermarini, a native of Pittsburgh, and obviously damn proud of what his city has accomplished, wants the restaurant to celebrate Pittsburgh in all it's glory ... even places like Liberty Avenue, he tells me rather pointedly. It's a huge, two-story restaurant with four main dining rooms including an entertainment lounge with a stage for a band, piano, singers, whatever combination there might be. And he wants photos throughout _all_ of it, photos that will complement and contrast the vintage ones, that'll show off the city in all its splendor including the amazing view of the Allegheny, Monongahela, and Ohio rivers from the restaurant's second-story Sky View dining room. Since the restaurant sits atop Mount Washington, that view is, in a word, spectacular.   
  
Why Piermarini happens to be at this particular benefit, I'm not sure. Apparently, from what I can gather, he has lots of money and likes to drop a good percentage of it on worthy causes. Nonetheless, I stand there in a daze listening to him discuss this project, hardly able to believe he thinks I might be the very good photographer he's looking for. Of course, he knows Mo Minnehan at the _Times_ and laughingly tells me he's already purloined many photos from the paper's archives. Now he asks for my business card, buys three of the photos he'd like to include in his collection, and wants to meet with me at the restaurant in a day or two so he can lay out his vision. He says he'll e-mail me the detailed plans, and wants a quote after we meet. Is a week long enough?  
  
Through it all, I manage somehow to not come off as an imbecile. Fortunately, I'm good when it comes to photography and can talk like a regular person on the subject. Plus, Lindsay sticks close, adding pertinent details about my experience that even _I_ forget, being sweet and pleasant, and so businesslike, I could kiss her. Almost.  
  
Eventually, Piermarini spots Brian, and insists he joins our little group. Brian listens with his normal, calm manner as the man goes over the whole thing again, although Brian knows a lot of it already. He doesn't seem the least bit surprised that I'd be given the opportunity to quote on the project, suggests several ways Ryder should use some of the resulting photos in their ad campaign, and tells the man he should make sure there's PR around the photographer's work in capturing images of the present-day city since it's all about Pittsburgh's history. Piermarini's assistant is taking furious notes while Brian talks and by the time the man dismisses us, he's talking like I've gotten the job and the quote is just a pesky little formality.  
  
I'm too stunned to speak, watching this ex-football player turned restaurant owner as he studies some of the photography on the other side of the room. The cold reality is starting to hit and I'm not sure I like my own thoughts right now. Walking steadily, I make it to the bar and order sparkling water, drinking half the glass in one gulp, the icy coldness soothing my dry throat once again.  
  
Brian follows. "You might try smiling," he says as he studies my face. "That wasn't a death sentence he just handed down."  
  
I manage a deep breath. "I know. It's … it's the opportunity of a lifetime. It'd really open doors."  
  
Brian snorts. "I'd say it'd smash any doors unlucky enough to get in your way. Piermarini has national name recognition. The press will be all over Three Rivers when it opens."  
  
"I don't know how I can do it." I speak in sudden panic, the words just popping out.  
  
"What?"  
  
"It's a huge project and I already have a full-time job—nearly full time. Fuck, and Mo told me the other day he was going to recommend a salaried position for me to Sarah, my boss, because there's an opening coming up soon."  
  
Brian's gaze hardens. "Then you find a way to make it work. You don't let something like this get away."  
  
"How?"  
  
"Fuck, get an assistant. Let her do all the legwork, make all the calls, keep you in film, all the shit like that."  
  
"Yeah, like I can afford an assistant!"  
  
"Put it in your quote," Brian says with fresh impatience. "Pay her a percentage of the commission or maybe you can get some upfront money. Marco will expect part of the quote to cover things like that. You can't manage a project that size without an assistant."  
  
"Where am I going to find someone? Who knows the art world well enough to be able to jump in and help? You heard him, the whole thing needs to be done by late spring. I don't—"  
  
"Lindsay!" Brian raises an arm to motion her over.   
  
I have a sudden bad feeling. "Brian—"  
  
"How'd you like a part time job?" he asks Lindsay the minute she comes to where we're standing.  
  
_Fuck_!  
  
"Working for who?" Lindsay looks from me to Brian and back again.  
  
"Brendan. He's going to need a PA to help with this Three Rivers project."  
  
" _If_ I get it," I say with what breath I can muster. Fuck, fuck, fuck! All I need is Lindsay working for me.   
  
"You know, I was thinking about that." Lindsay crosses her arms over her chest and looks grave. "You'll definitely need someone to help because I'm assuming you're not going to be quitting your job any time soon."  
  
"No, I … of course not."  
  
"Actually, it would work perfectly for me," Lindsay goes on, still looking very businesslike. "I could do most of what you need with Gus in tow or from home. I'd probably keep busy just rearranging your appointments every time your editor at the _Times_ calls with a new assignment. Plus, I could do your billing, keep track of your expenses, make sure your film processing gets done on time … stuff like that."  
  
"Well, I don't … that's very nice of you to offer, but … I'm not sure—"  
  
"Oh, fuck, he accepts!" Brian puts in. "But first he's got to do that walk-through with Marco and then write up one hell of a quote." He clasps my shoulder, his long fingers pressing into me. "I'll be back on Saturday and can review it then." Turning on his heel, Brian stalks off.  
  
Lindsay chuckles. "He's _such_ the big brother. He was made for the job."  
  
I stare at his departing figure, warm love for Brian mixed with dismay at the situation. How the hell am I going to work that closely with Lindsay? Fuck, as my assistant she'd be knee-deep in my business, dropping stuff off at the apartment, showing up at shoots to grab film, assisting me when I'm setting someone up for a portrait. This is an amazing opportunity, the kind of opportunity that could single-handedly make my career. There's no doubt about that. When Three Rivers opens in May, Brian's right—the national press will be there along with Piermarini's old team mates from his glory days, _and_ the assorted high profile Hollywood types he knows. If my photographs are plastered all over the walls of his restaurant … well, the thought alone makes it hard to breathe. I might end up doing a solo show and there's no telling what other offers might come my way. But I can't do what Piermarini needs within the allotted timeframe without someone's help and I sure don't have the time to look for that someone. As the saying goes, I'm going to have to hit the ground running.  
  
Lindsay touches my arm. "This must be pretty overwhelming, huh?" she says, her voice dropping. "Look, let me know what I can do to help, okay? I'm sure you need a little time to process everything."  
  
"Yeah, uh, I do." Without thinking, I pat her hand then want to snatch it away like I've been burned. "Thanks Lindsay."  
  
She gives me a sweet smile, and walks off, stopping to talk to Justin who's in the middle of a discussion with yet another person in front of my photos.  
  
God, what am I going to do? Brian's right. She's perfect. I need her.   
  
I really need her.  
  
At the same time, I don't want her.   
  
I don't want her at all.


	23. Chapter 23

[ ](http://photobucket.com)

~ 23 ~  
  
_"If you're not going to get out there, give it all you've got, and live like there's no tomorrow, then … well, why the fuck live at all?"_

  
We make it to the inn in under eight hours, a record considering the fact that it's snowing when our flight touches down in Lebanon, New Hampshire. The flurries that alight on Justin's upturned face quickly turn into moderate-to-heavy snow as we wait for our ride to the inn. Eventually, the Range Rover arrives and we finish our trip in the backseat, taking a tour of the snowy landscape as we journey the last sixty miles. Strangely enough, Justin, who talked nonstop during our flight from the Pitts to LaGuardia, and who made friends with every single person on the small commuter plane to Lebanon, goes silent during much of the ride to the inn. At first, it's such a fuckin' relief to be able to think my own thoughts that I enjoy it, but wouldn't you know? Nothing is ever simple with this kid because after a while, it … well, it disturbs me. Is he sad? Upset? Angry? Unless he's asleep, a quiet Justin is a creature I don't recognize. "So … what're you thinking?" I finally ask him, my voice quiet though the baldheaded driver in the front is wearing ear buds and no doubt lost in his favorite tunes.   
  
Justin, who's been staring out the window, fogging up the glass, turns to face me, and the soft wonder in his eyes tells the story even before he speaks. "I never … it just seems like-like I've entered a different world. A beautiful world."  
  
He's such a fuckin' romantic and, even after all that's happened, still so innocent. "You are in a different world—a different _state_ as a matter of fact," I say in my most down-to-earth voice, but then put an arm around his shoulders and pull him close. Fuck, why am I saying that shit? One way or another, all his illusions will soon be shattered. Let him have his little adventure in winter wonderland, even if it's _queer_ winter wonderland. "It's nice," I tell him, a little concession. "Almost like they arranged the fresh snow just for you."  
  
That earns me his beaming smile. "Did you talk to someone about that?"  
  
I kiss his cheek, then brush my lips over his, tasting the cinnamon from that donut he wolfed down back at the store. "Yeah, right. You know me and my connections. One phone call is all it took."  
  
He snuggles happily against me with a sigh, his hair tickling my nose as he draws close, and that feeling in my chest—that same stupid, fuckin' feeling—assaults me again. Luckily, I'm good at ignoring it because there isn't going to be any ugliness on this vacation, like me grousing at him. I told myself that this morning before we even walked out the door. The trip to Vermont is a gift. To Justin. So, it ought to be free from me and my anti-romance, anti-love, anti-commitment bullshit, the kind of bullshit that makes Justin doubt himself not to mention everyone, and everything. No matter how strongly I feel about those things, no matter how well they've served me in my life, even I can see that they don't belong in this scene: the picturesque setting, the gorgeous inn, the beautiful young man. That doesn't mean I'm going soft, either. It just means I'm following through on the commitment I made when I gave Justin this gift. And the fact that certain things aren't going well in my own life right now, well, shit, so what? Is that any different than how it's always been?  
  
Cynthia called me late Sunday to give me the details of the rumor she heard. It isn't much of a proper rumor since her source is in a position to know, although, yeah, it has yet to be confirmed. It looks like Marty may be selling the business soon, and, fuck, there goes my partnership because any promise Marty made to me is not necessarily a promise the new owner will feel obliged to keep. Shit, after all the years I've worked at the agency and all the business I've brought in for them, I could be out on the street if the new guy doesn't like what he sees. Which means I ought to be there, at work, looking every bit the superstar overachiever I am. If what she's saying is true, I have no business taking off a week to vacation in Vermont even if it is the holidays. I'm a fool to do so and I know that. I know it and, yet, somehow, it's what I have to do. Cynthia will call me if things go seriously south, but until then, I made a commitment, I need to follow through on it, and I'm not about to behave like someone running scared. If my track record doesn't tell this new owner what he needs to know about me then he can fuck himself. There are other agencies who'd be glad to have me.  
  
Then there's Debbie and Mikey. I don't know why I let them affect me because the way they're behaving … it's bullshit, pure and simple. Mikey called because he found out I was going on vacation. Of course, he couldn't believe I was taking Justin with me, he was all over me about how I'm letting a twink dictate to me, how I'm going to regret it when Justin reaches his next teenage phase and drops me like a week-old fashion trend. Mikey and I have "issues"—even I get that. But that doesn't mean he can behave like an asshole, especially where Justin is concerned. Then, when I told him that Brendan would check the loft while I was gone, and do all the stuff he used to do, well, he went off on a major bitch fit, screaming about our years together, where was my loyalty, why was I letting "those two" emasculate me—on and on and on. So, I hung up on him.   
  
And then there's this whole Flight of Fancy thing. I've talked with Dominic and we'll be discussing it again, but, fuck, it worries me. I've already insisted that Justin dial way back on his expectations of what such a slave/master fantasy would look like because I'm sure the version in his head is violent, or at least headed in that direction. That's fine. People fantasizing stuff like that is okay with me. Justin fantasizing it is okay too. But Justin being restrained or manhandled, Justin being smacked by anyone other than me (and the only place I'd ever smack him would be on the ass), Justin being in any prolonged situation where his play-acted fear could morph into the real thing—none of that's happening. I've watched him go into a flashback episode in mere seconds. One time, I came up behind him when he wasn't expecting it, and he went off, screaming and crying, terrified because it sent him right back to the day that fucker Hobbs attacked him. Sure, that was right after he came to live with me, and he'd been pretty stressed out by other things that day, but still, it's only six months since Hobbs did what he did. In this fantasy, Justin wants to pretend things that have the potential to send him into that downward spiral simply because it contains some of the same aggressive elements present in the attack. I want him to have fun. I want the sex to be extra special, to cause him to see stars, to make him scream.   
  
I don't want him hurt.   
  
In fact, I won't tolerate it.  
***  
We have one of the suites on the top floor of the inn, on the eastern corner overlooking the mountains. As the bellman brings in our bags, Justin walks around like a man in a dream, going from the bedroom with its giant four poster bed, to the dual-sided fireplace, which has been lit, to the kitchenette that's in the separate living room area, to the Jacuzzi in the bathroom, to the French doors that open onto a spacious balcony. Although his father is well off and I'm sure he went on many vacations with his family, I doubt he's ever been in a place this luxurious. I pay the bellman after he unloads the groceries Justin bought at the little store in Lebanon, and close the door behind him.  
  
Justin stares out the window, his arms clasped around his waist. "Well?" I come up to him and lay my hands on his shoulders. "Will it do?"  
  
He turns and I see something that makes me want to step back, that's always hard for me: tears in his eyes. "Brian, it's so wonderful." His voice falters. "So … wonderful."  
  
With a little huff, I take him into my arms and hug him. "I'm glad you like it," I whisper in his hair.  
  
His arms wrap tightly around my waist, a band of warmth encircling me. "I do, I _so_ do." He looks up at me and a little of the humor comes back into his face. "I'll need to give you a blowjob every hour, to thank you."  
  
My tongue goes into my cheek. "I like that idea."  
  
"Even while you're sleeping."  
  
"That could be interesting."  
  
Laughing, we end up christening the bed _and_ the shower before Justin slips into a nap that's a relief to me because he hardly slept last night. Me neither, but that's different. When he wakes up, it's late afternoon. We dress and tour the place, although we don't go outside and check out the slopes because the snow is coming down hard and fast. As usual, Justin makes friends with some of the other fags and soon we're in the game room shooting pool and drinking beer. Funny thing is, I start to relax.   
  
At six, we go down the hall to the Sunset Grill, the casual dining room, which is already packed with people, the sound of silverware hitting china and murmuring voices coming to my ears the minute we come around the corner. Dominic, however, is expecting us, and since he, along with his partner, Clayton, _owns_ the Inn at Snowy Mountain, there's a table already reserved for us. We order appetizers, and I order another beer, but Justin asks for a Coke. By now, he's a little nervous because he fears Dominic will somehow disqualify him from participating in the sexual role-playing. I've tried to reassure him that Dominic just wants to meet him, that he meets everyone who's going to be part of Flight of Fancy, that it's SOP. I don't think he believes me.  
  
A few minutes pass, and the waiter returns with our drinks. Right after that, Dominic walks up to the table with the appetizers in hand. He sets them on the table, and gives me a big grin. "Brian."  
  
Dominic is in his fifties, tall, and solidly built. To camouflage his receding hairline, he wears his hair razored very close to the scalp, but balances that with the salt-and-pepper stubble on his face. His eyes are his best feature, a warm dusky blue framed by bushy, well shaped eyebrows that would glower threateningly if his eyes didn't convey his innate kindness. He has on a dark blue cable-knit sweater and a pair of beautifully cut slacks, immaculate as always. I've known him for almost ten years and, yeah, the first time I came here, I was little more than a kid, traveling with an older man. Ironic, to say the least. "Dominic." I grasp the hand he offers. We smile at each other, but I quickly turn my attention to Justin. "Dominic Fitzgerald this is Justin Taylor. Justin? Dominic."  
  
Justin stands up and takes the hand Dominic offers. "Nice to meet you, sir."  
  
"Justin, nice to meet you too."  
  
Everyone sits and we chat about the weather, our trip up, our suite upstairs. Dominic being the good host makes sure everything is fine. The waiter brings Dominic a glass of white wine and we order dinner. While I eat grilled Shrimp Escabeche and Justin picks at the baked potato skins, Dominic gives Justin a few details of his life, telling him, briefly, about his experience in the Navy during the Vietnam era, when he was a corpsman. He mentions how often he saw cases of PTSD, but doesn't dwell on it, focusing more on his subsequent years as an EMT. Then he tells Justin how he met Clayton, and about their decision twenty years ago to refurbish the old Ashbaugh mansion and turn it into the inn. Clayton, who's ten years younger than Dominic (and I hate to think what Justin will say when he discovers _that_ ), pooled his knowledge of the New England skiing scene and extensive local contacts with Dominic's business acumen and love of people into what became a winning combination.   
  
Our entrees arrive and as I cut into my porterhouse, Dominic gets to the heart of the conversation. "So," he says, signaling the waiter to refill his wine glass and waiting 'til it's done, "tell me if you think there's a legitimate concern here, with the role-playing." He's focused on Justin, but glances at me. "Obviously, Brian does, but I'd like to hear your view."  
  
That scores him big points, which I see in the way Justin sits a little straighter and actually looks at the roast chicken in front of him as if he might even be hungry. "It's been about … six weeks since I had a flashback and it happened then because I was so stressed out."  
  
"So that can bring it on? Stress?"  
  
"Yes, sir. Or being surprised suddenly. But the stress …" Justin pauses, fork in hand to devote his full attention to Dominic. "It's _bad_ stress, not the good kind."  
  
Dominic gives him a mischievous smile and then winks at me. "Oh, I have an idea about that _good_ stress and that's exactly what we want to provide while you're here."  
  
I raise an eyebrow, but don't speak. Justin is already embarrassed about sharing his sexual fantasy with a stranger and doesn't need me adding my two cents.   
  
"Okay." Dominic sets down his glass and folds his hands on the table. "I'm sure Brian told you we usually write out the way the tableau will go?"  
  
Justin nods.  
  
"That keeps everyone on track even though it's not a script and no one has lines to memorize. It just makes it easier for people to follow what's going on." His gaze meets Justin's. "I'd like to tweak your original fantasy just a bit and I want to tell you why."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"What you want is, in general, what a lot of people want. We call it 'ravishment' because it sounds so much better than using the word 'rape,' which really has a far different connotation. In essence, it's sexual role-playing where one person forces himself on another, but—and this is the critical difference—with the other person's consent. Just about everyone has fantasies about being overwhelmed by a handsome prince or dashing stranger, forced to do what they don't want to do and yet …" He grins at Justin. "… not really forced." He leans back in his chair. "However, in your case, with your description of the rebellious slave, we run into a problem, because if this boy had recently been snatched off the street, he'd be fighting tooth and nail during the auction, and later too, when he was forced to service his new master."  
  
"An auction?" Justin breathes, and he leans forward, his food forgotten.  
  
"Yes. I'd play the slave trader and bring you into a group of men with the intention of selling you to the highest bidder."  
  
Justin smiles and looks embarrassed and turned on all at the same time. "But you … want to tweak it?"  
  
"I don't want you in a situation where, realistically, you'd be struggling, screaming, yelling, carrying on, which someone who'd just become a slave would naturally do."  
  
"That makes sense."  
  
Dominic, who writes all the tableaux for the role-playing evenings, goes on to tell Justin that he's created an alternate universe to accommodate this fantasy, a world where only the rich and poor exist. The poor, of course, wind up as slaves in the hands of the rich, but they go through _training_ before they do; no one goes straight from the street to the auction block. It's in the slave training schools where their will is broken and they become resigned to the new role forced upon them. And that, Dominic tells Justin, is the place he'll be at when this tableau beings.  
  
"So I'm not rebellious?" Justin asks with a touch of disappointment in his voice.  
  
"Oh, no, you still are, but you've learned to tone it down, to rebel without flailing around or mouthing off too much so that you'd need to be restrained—" Dominic gives him a delightful grin and his voice drops dramatically. "—because you _know_ what the consequences would be."  
  
"I like that." I look from one to another, then spear a French fry, biting into the salty goodness and chewing for a second. "You can do a lot with that. It's all about attitude."  
  
"Absolutely," Dominic says with a laugh, directing his comment at Justin. "You can smolder rather than burn. Just think about it. You'll be this impossibly beautiful young man trapped in an intolerable, tragic situation from which you can't escape. Then along comes Mr. Kinney, the handsome, wealthy man who will buy you and tame you with his overpowering sexuality as well as his physical prowess. How does that sound?"  
  
Justin's mouth is halfway opened. "Good," he finally croaks, and I have to bite my inner lip to keep from laughing.  
  
We talk for a while longer, but Dominic seems satisfied and veers off the subject of Flight of Fancy to other subjects, telling Justin stories about his relationship with Clayton that makes us both laugh. He excuses himself within the next twenty minutes, but invites us to have a nightcap with Clayton and him around ten.  
***  
By the time we make it to Clayton and Dominic's apartment on the inn's top floor, it's a little after ten and I'm feeling mellow. Maybe it's the beer and wine and Chivas I've consumed, but … maybe not. We've spent a few hours mingling with the other fags, exchanging business cards (me), playing table tennis (Justin), and even watching part of a movie. Not normally my kind of evening but watching Justin's glowing face seems to be working for me almost as well as a hit of E.  
  
Clayton, Dominic's partner, is a tall redhead with mid-length, curling hair like a rock star. He's got more freckles than someone in their forties ought to have, and a smiling countenance to go with it. He's not what I'd call handsome, but has such a happy personality it's hard not to like him or be drawn to him. He irritates me half the time, but even I … well, sometimes I like him too. Justin, obviously, likes him right away and they go off to look at potential outfits for Justin's Flight of Fancy debut. Clayton fancies himself as a sartorial expert, although I have my doubts. He wears some strange clothes.  
  
It seems clear that Clayton was tasked with getting Justin out of the room for a while. After they're gone, Dominic pours me more Chivas and we sit on the sofa in front of the fireplace. I wait for his questions because I know they're coming. He's talked to Justin at length and now he'll want some answers.  
  
I don't have to wait long.  
  
Dominic sips his drink. "I know I'm crossing the line, Brian, but I'm going to ask it anyway: what exactly is your relationship with Justin?"  
  
I give him a look, and shake my head. "What the hell does that have to do with the role-playing?"  
  
"You may not think so, but it makes one hell of a difference. The attitude toward the role-playing is going to vary significantly between two fuck-buddies out to have a good time, and a pair of lovers."  
  
I make a sound, set my drink onto the table in front of me, and reach for the cigarettes in my pocket, tapping out one. "You know I don't do relationships, Dominic. Never have. After ten years, I would think you—"  
  
"You don't do relationships until _now_." He grabs the cigarette from me. "Come on, be honest with me. I'm not blind and I can see the way you look at him. He's not a trick, he's not a fuck-buddy, and he sure as hell isn't a casual acquaintance." He rolls my cigarette between his fingers. "You probably don't realize this, Brian, but you have a strange light in your eyes when you look at him, a light I'd call 'love' if I saw it in anyone else."  
  
"I don't believe in love, I believe in fucking," I say without thinking. Damn, I sound like I've been programmed. "I mean, I just … love is something for straight people."  
  
He hands me the cigarette and leans back, clasping his hands behind his head with a gruff chuckle. "Yeah, you just go on telling yourself that. It might keep you from getting your heart broken, but I doubt it."  
  
I light the cigarette and take a deep drag. "Well, fuck, Dominic, if I _were_ interested in something like that, which I'm not, you wouldn't be very encouraging here, would you? Not with talk like that."  
  
"You don't need encouragement, my friend. You're long gone and who can blame you? Justin is wonderful."  
  
"He is wonderful, but that doesn't mean—"  
  
"It means you care about him. Hell, how many conversations have you and I had about this role-playing thing in the last three days?" He makes an amused sound. "You'd think we were going to line up and take turns beating on the kid given how concerned you are. You can fool a lot of people, but you can't fool me. I know love when I see it and believe me, this is love."  
  
I stare into the fireplace, watching the way the flames leap up to consume the log. Fuck, what can I say to that? He's one of the few people in my life who can make grand pronouncements about me that I can't refute with a few well-placed snarls. Debbie, Vic, and Dominic—that's the trifecta, although Deb's quickly losing her power. But, fuck, just because he and I had a sexual relationship at one time long ago when I was a confused kid just out of college, just because he helped me through a couple of bumps in the road when I was inexperienced, and, well, struggling with a few personal issues, that doesn't mean he's privy to every damn thing in my life. "Love's bullshit." I grab my drink off the table, and finish it in one gulp, feeling the burn all the way down.  
  
"No, it isn't."  
  
"It just gets you—" I stop, nearly biting off my tongue in the effort not to finish.  
  
"—hurt?" Another sound, this one bittersweet. "Of course it does. Any time you risk something of yourself, you open the door to that, which you certainly know without me telling you. Shit, look at your business. Every time you make a presentation to a potential client, you're risking that same rejection only it's not on such an intense, personal level. But you do it anyway. You have to or you'd never get anywhere, you'd always be some low-level grunt at the bottom of the advertising world food chain."  
  
"And yet even there, people get kicked in the balls all the time."  
  
"Very true, but so what? That's how life works. You're what now, thirty? Thirty-one? You certainly know that. And it's no different in relationships."  
  
I've known for a long time that Dominic believes himself to be a big brother to me, and if there's one thing I fucking don't need, it's another brother. But … well, he has been a kind of mentor, I'll give him that. His business experience is first-class and I've consulted with him many times when I've come up against a problem with a client. He's always been generous with his time, helpful, insightful, and so, fuck, sometimes we talk about personal shit. So, maybe my next question isn't _that_ unexpected. "What happens when you go for it, when you risk it all, and you _still_ get kicked in the teeth? What the hell does that prove … other than you're the world's biggest chump."  
  
"It proves you're human. It proves you're real and because you're real, you hurt like real people do. Then you get up, and you fucking do it again."  
  
"Do _what_ again? Love?"  
  
"Yep."  
  
"After you've been betrayed by someone? Stomped on?"  
  
"Yeah, and you know why, Brian? I'll tell you why. Because otherwise, you become one of the frozen people who never love, whose insides long ago became a solid block of ice, who feel nothing, give and receive nothing, who are barely alive. There's nothing worse than that, my friend. If you're not going to get out there, give it all you've got, and live like there's no tomorrow, then … well, why the fuck live at all?" Dominic leans toward me enough to pat my shoulder. "You're a lucky man, Brian. You're tall, handsome, and intelligent, you've got money, style, a great job, and best of all, you've got an amazing young man in love with you … a young man who was almost taken from you, but survived. Celebrate _that_ my friend. Don't live in fear because fear will kill you quicker than anything."  
  
Sitting there, listening to his lecture, part of me cringes and wants to fuckin' leave the room. Another part of me, though, much smaller, hears the fuckin' heartbeat of his words deep down inside, in places I didn't know existed. Not anymore. Not after … every fuckin' thing in my life.  
  
Like a tiny flame kindled, that warm spot begins to seep into my bones, my muscles and tissue, my veins, all of me, and I feel something again, that same something I felt on Christmas day, a something I won't name, can't name, couldn't name if my life depended upon it. A nameless something that relaxes my shoulders, that eases the tension I've carried all day. Head lowered, I resist the impulse to sigh. I'm sure as shit not going to admit anything—not to me, not to anyone. "Shut the fuck up," I tell Dominic finally. "I'm done answering your questions."  
  
"Whatever you say," Dominic replies in his sweetest voice.  
  
And that, I tell myself, is that.


	24. Chapter 24

[ ](http://photobucket.com)

 

~ 24 ~  
  
_The embarrassment disappears and for an instant, all I feel is a deep happiness that covers me like a toasty warm blanket._  
  
January 2nd, the night of Flight of Fancy, I'm in our suite, close to eight, waiting for Dominic to arrive. Nervous as hell, wondering why I wanted to do this since, right now, all I can think about is being embarrassed, or even laughed at in front of the other men. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that I'm one of the youngest people in the place. God knows I've been cruised enough in the last three days and half of them use the word "twink" or "boy" while whispering in my ear. But how that translates in this particular situation, I'm not sure. Maybe they'll be amused by my immature fantasy or rate it as boringly unoriginal. Dominic says neither is true, but he's so nice I'm not sure he'd tell me the truth even if I asked.   
  
Our tableau is at 8:15 and Brian's already left, per our instructions. You wouldn't believe the scene setting material we received from Dominic. He really does take this seriously although I guess otherwise it could deteriorate into a huge mess. Like he told us, we don't have lines to say—that's all extemporaneous—but we know every move of what's happening, who's involved, when we enter, when we exit. Clayton's going to be one of the potential buyers in the tableau, seated during the auction along with a few other men Dominic says are reliable. Everyone's been instructed not to come up behind me or make a grab at me where I'd be surprised. I'm embarrassed about that too, but it's like a lot of other things I've had to do it if I wanted the whole thing to go forward. I even had to call Dr. Radnor, before we left, and make sure he thought this was okay. God, talk about humiliation! I didn't have to tell him about the role-playing, but Brian insisted I ask him about rough sex. I'll bet that gave him pause! However, the doctor said as long as I wasn't talking "serious S &M," and no one would be banging my head against a wall, it was fine.   
  
In the bathroom, I check my outfit one last time. Brian had some definite ideas about how he wanted his slave boy to look and, in the end, Clayton agreed that Brian's choices were perfect. So, here I am, wearing low-rise black leather pants that are jeans-cut and _tight_ , although not so tight that I can't move. With them, I have on a periwinkle blue hoodie that's a silk and cotton blend. It's molded to my body, and comes just to the waist. I also have on black Vans with a white bottom, low cut. I think they're skate shoes, although I'm not sure. And, yeah, the effect is that I look young, like a kid, a "deliciously sweet blond boy" as Clayton said. Okay, maybe not sweet. A _hot_ blond boy, kind of like I'm a member of a boy band.  
  
I snort at the image and turn away. Some boy band member. I'm about to be sold to the highest bidder.  
  
There's a knock and I freeze. Oh, shit! It's Dominic. Taking a deep breath, I make it to the door in a few strides and pull it open.  
  
Dominic is dressed in a black suit with a blue shirt and striped tie. He looks businesslike, which goes with his role as slave trader/auctioneer. "Well, look at you," he says as he comes inside. Hands in his pants pockets, he takes a minute to examine me from head to toe. "Good. Very good. You are the stuff of dreams."  
  
I tug on the shirt, a little self-conscious. Shit, what am I going to do when I get to the auction? They'll _all_ be looking at me, especially when the bidding starts and I … but, okay, wait, just wait. Take a breath and think. I'm King of Babylon, right? I got up in front of all those people and danced my ass off. And they roared with approval when I did. They crowned me their king even though all those other men were big hunks with pecs and abs that put me to shame. I have to remember that. "Huh?" I say when I realize Dominic has spoken.  
  
"How're you feeling?"   
  
"Nervous."  
  
"That's normal. Take some deep breaths." He waits while I comply. "I'm going to put you in character in a moment and from then on, you'll stay in character, okay? Justin Taylor, son, brother, art student, and lover of Brian Kinney, will cease to exist. Justin Taylor, slave, will be your only focus. Understand?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Good. Now listen." He steps forward and puts his hands on my shoulders, thumbs rubbing. "Being as how you and Brian make such a striking couple, this particular tableau made its way into the inn's grapevine right after you arrived. I've had many requests from people to attend the event and I've granted _some_ of them, people I trust. So, in addition to the grouping around the fireplace where the auction will be held, there will be other people in the room, watching. They're not allowed to interact with you or any of the members of the scene, no matter what." He grins at me. "Most of them will be leaving after you and Brian do … to, uh, relieve the level of tension you will no doubt create."  
  
I smile at the thought that people will be off somewhere jerking off or fucking after watching me being sold to Brian.   
  
"The potential buyers will be touching you in intimate spots but without removing any clothing. You're still fine with that?"  
  
"Yeah, I am." When I suggested the slave ought to be stripped in front of the buyers, Brian rejected the idea, adamantly. He's funny like that. Even in the backroom, he covers me with his body after he's pulled down my pants, and, when we're doing threesomes at the loft, the tricks almost never see me naked unless they're about to suck me off. Given how little Brian cares about being nude himself, it's weird. Anyway, I insisted that the guys be able to touch me because he wanted to veto that too. That ended up being the tradeoff. I mean, what kind of a sex slave am I if no one can even _touch_ me? I'm sure it'll be a huge turn-on. And it's not like I've never been touched before by someone other than Brian. Shit, I'm not a virginal maiden.   
  
"And you know your safewords? Yellow, to slow it down. Red to stop everything. Correct?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Okay." Dominic checks his watch. "We're due in five minutes." He looks me in the eye. "So, let me remind you: I'm your master, the man who trained you to be a good sex slave. That means we've been intimate many times, that I've taught you everything you need to know about how to please your master, and that you have a healthy respect for me, one based on the beatings and other means of persuasion I've employed. Understood?"  
  
At his words, my throat goes dry. It's so weird to hear my private fantasies spoken aloud. Yeah, it's a huge turn-on, but it also makes me squirm. "Yes, sir."  
  
"Remember, don't speak unless you're spoken to. Keep your eyes down and only look up to answer questions." Dominic's voice drops and I hear a subtle menace that wasn't there before. "Do you understand, Justin?"  
  
I drop my gaze to the floor. "Yes, sir."  
  
He walks around me, inspecting, but this time, he touches, hands gliding across my ass, tugging on my shirt, brushing something from my shoulder. He crouches in front of me to smooth the already smooth pants. One hand snakes up my leg until he cups me, molding his fingers around my rapidly expanding cock. It makes me furious that he can touch me like that, whenever he wants, because he _owns_ me. Embarrassment, excitement, and anger war with fantasy versus reality in my already over-stimulated brain. He stands back up. "I don't want any incidents like the last time," he says in that same threatening voice. With ungentle fingers, he pushes up my chin to give me a fierce stare. "Do you hear me, Justin? There will be _hell_ to pay if you so much as look at me the wrong way." His fingers on my chin tighten. "If you want another beating, I can accommodate you. Understood?"  
  
"Yes, sir." I'm whispering, but there's an angry undertone in my voice because I'm imagining my history with this man, what he's forced me to do, what he's done to me, the pain he's caused. It makes me shake with anger; it makes me even harder.  
  
He pulls something out of his pocket and shows it to me. A leather collar with an oval, bronze tag attached to the front. The tag has "Property of FTS, #3286" engraved on it. _FTS_. Fitzgerald Training School. Shit, he's thought of everything. A moment later, his cold hands are around my neck fastening the collar into place. I feel the leather pressed tightly against my throat as he goes behind me and works to buckle it. The tag dangles from the collar's front, slowly warmed by my skin. "Come on, boy." He takes me by the arm, dragging me out of the room and to the elevator with long strides so I can barely keep up with him.   
  
A moment later, we're heading down. My heart pounds, my face is flushed, my feelings all over the place. Part of me wants to stop the whole thing, but that part, surprisingly, is the smallest. More of me is turned on or angry, more of me feels the heat on my skin, the hardness of my cock, the rush of sensations throughout my body that threaten to overwhelm. I'm horrified to realize that part of me _likes_ this manhandling, that I _revel_ in the prospect of belonging to Brian, that I _want_ to be dominated by him.  
  
Downstairs, I am hauled across the lobby to the private commons room we'll be using. There's a man standing at the door who opens it as we approach. My eyes are on the ground, but, as we enter, I hear the buzz of male voices come to a halt. Dominic pulls me with him as he walks to the large area where all the potential buyers are seated. Under my eyelashes, I can see that there are a huge number of men outside that circle, just like Dominic said. Already, the room feels overly warm, and airless. "Good evening, everyone." He speaks in a cordial voice as he pulls me to the center. "Thanks for coming out on such a chilly night, but I think you'll like what I have to offer."  
  
To my horror, I realize there's a small square platform in the middle of this area that's maybe fifteen inches off the floor and wide enough for two people to stand on. Without hesitation, Dominic shoves me toward it. Shit! On legs that are wobbly, I step up onto the thing followed by Dominic. As a discomfited warmth sweeps through my body, I can barely breathe. God, I'm crazy! Why do I have a hard-on when I'm standing here among these men, a non-entity, a possession, a _thing_? It chills me that I feel this way, but, somehow, it's liberating as well, although I can't explain why. Plus, I know all eyes are on me, that I'm the center of attention, and I like that—I like that a lot.  
  
Standing behind me, Dominic has his hands on me, fingertips biting into my shoulders. "Gentlemen," he says in an easy tone as if he's talking to friends, "this tasty little morsel is Justin." He gives me a shake. "Raise your head, boy."  
  
Feeling an intense blush, I do as he says. There's a huge stone fireplace in front of me, one with a roughhewn wooden mantelpiece. On either side of it are brown leather sofas and easy chairs … and every single one is now occupied. Dominic said there'd be ten men, but I can't see everyone so I'm not sure. Pressing my lips together, I glare at the men I can see who watch me with lascivious amusement.   
  
I don't see Brian.  
  
"Justin is eighteen, five-foot-eight, one hundred and thirty pounds. Blue eyes and, yes, I can attest to the fact that he's a natural blond."  
  
A few men chuckle and I cringe inwardly, but fuck, that does nothing for the adrenaline that's shooting through me, for the raging boner pressed against my pants.  
  
"He comes from a family that valued education so he's articulate and smart should _talking_ be something you're interested in doing with him."  
  
More chuckles.   
  
"I prefer my slave make better use of his mouth than _that_ ," a guy with a trim goatee says to my left.  
  
"Yeah, well, I heard this boy was a troublemaker," a redheaded man next to him says, his expression sour. Clayton! He's wearing a pinstriped suit with a metallic gleam, and a purple shirt underneath. "Has he been marked down?"  
  
"He's _not_ a troublemaker. That's been dealt with. As long as you take a firm hand with him, you won't have any problems."  
  
"Oh, I'd be glad to take a firm hand if I can wrap it around _that_." A swarthy, black-haired man with a definite paunch speaks up, pointing to my stiffy.  
  
"Ah, I'm glad you noticed how well endowed he is." Dominic's hand is on my dick, stroking the length of it through my pants until it's crowding the space it's been allotted. "The boy's got a good seven inches and it's thick, my friends, very thick. You will not be disappointed on that front." He forces my arms up, akimbo, like I'm being robbed. "Hold them there," he orders and addresses the men again, turning me a little as he begins his presentation. "Notice the firm stomach, chest, and arms," he says as he jerks up my shirt. "And the lovely, soft skin. He's young and muscular without too much definition—just what you'd want in a pretty boy slave." His hands sweep over my chest, down to my belly. I'm shocked when he slips his fingers inside the pants, but he slides them around to the back and removes them so he can cup my ass. "This, of course, is the pièce de résistance. One of the finest asses you'll ever see this side of heaven." He smacks me, but not hard, though the leather makes it sound worse. "Oh, and before I forget, he's a great fuck." Dominic lowers my arms. "Tight. Almost virgin tight, but then, he's had enough experience that he knows how to please his master." His hands clamp my shoulders again. "I know you'd all like a firsthand look."   
  
Before I know what's happening, Dominic steps off the platform, jerking me after him. He pushes me over to the first man in the outermost chair, the short, dark-haired one. The man stands and, without any hesitation, fondles me, his hands on my ass, my cock, inside my shirt, down my fuckin' legs as he listens to Dominic's spiel, asks questions, and comments on me like I'm not there. As humiliation and desire mingle in ways I never thought possible, everything becomes rushed, blurry, and heated. I'm passed roughly to the next man who does the same thing, then the next and the next. Hands roam over my body, prodding and poking, erections push against me, my ass is repeatedly grabbed. As I inhale the odor of sweaty bodies, aftershave, and breath mints, their hot breath washes over me, their fingers trace my nipples, their lips brush against mine. A dizzying fog of sensation rushes me, invades my space, threatens, and, yes, frightens me. Yet, through it all, I am _still_ so turned on I fear I'll disgrace myself at any moment.  
  
Finally, we reach the end of this gauntlet I've run and, right then, breathless and over stimulated, I see Brian for the first time.   
  
Involuntarily, I gasp.  
  
"Silence!" Dominic hisses at my ear.  
  
Brian is in black tailored pants and a black, cashmere turtleneck sweater. One leg is crossed over the other, his elbows propped on the chair's arms, his hands clasped together in an inverted V, his fingers interlaced. His gaze on me is cold, clinical, a Brian I've never before seen not even in our earliest days together. He's playing his part a little too well and, suddenly, I _feel_ like a slave, overwhelmed and demoralized by this chill, unbending countenance. My knees begin to tremble at the sight of him, at the intensity of that stare, at the promise I see in those eyes, a promise of great pleasure, but also, if I'm not careful, great pain.   
  
"Bring him here," Brian says right then, on cue.  
  
Dominic pushes me forward until I stand in front of Brian. Unlike the other men, he doesn't stand and, since my gaze is on the floor, I'm not sure what he's doing. There's a long silence. I don't think anyone in the room so much as breathes. "Kneel down," Brian finally commands.  
  
I drop to my knees, heart pounding with such fury I'm afraid I won't be able to hear what he says. A second later I flinch when he cups my face and forces me to look at him. The hardness in his eyes remains and there is no hint of familiarity there. "You're very pretty, _boy_." He speaks so softly I doubt anyone else hears. "I could find many interesting things to do to you." He opens his legs and draws me between them, pulling me up to him. Then he leans forward, his lips just brushing mine, his grip on me so firm I can't move as he licks my lips, spreading warm spit there. Without warning, his tongue slips into my mouth as he overpowers me with a kiss, his teeth grinding against mine. He pulls back and looks up at Dominic. "Does he give good head?"  
  
Behind me, Dominic chuckles. "Excellent," he says smoothly, "and before you ask, he has no gag reflex either. I personally made sure of that."  
  
I hear crude laughter and my face burns. Trembling, I try to take deep breaths. Fuck, being dehumanized isn't as easy as I thought it would be. I could use my safe word, of course, to slow it all down, but, I don't want to seem like a wuss. Besides, we've only been doing this a few minutes and already I'm copping out? Shit, I need to show some balls, to be tough like Brian would be, fuck, like _I_ should be!  
  
"That's good to know." Brian swipes a thumb across my mouth to wipe away his saliva, then slides his hands down my arms to grasp my hands. His fingers apply gentle pressure and, although his expression doesn't change, I read the message there: are you okay?  
  
I squeeze back, also gentle, saying: don't worry, I'm fine. And I am. I just … I didn't realize the role-playing would be so dead on serious, so _realistic_.  
  
Brian continues his inspection, his movements slow and sensual as he runs both hands across my ass and around to my cock. He palms me with deliberate strokes, and I close my eyes, lost in the sensation, moaning when he pulls me close for another extended kiss. Then, abruptly, he pushes me back. "Okay, he'll do." He waves a hand at Dominic. "Get on with it. I'm a busy man. I don't have all night."  
  
Lowering my head, I nonetheless see his hard-on and can't help but smile. I'm not the only one afraid he'll embarrass himself.  
  
Dominic takes me back to the platform and I stand there next to him, mortified and turned on as he auctions me off. We've already established that, in this AU world, the price for a boy who's nothing special is around $5,000. So, I feel a perverse sense of pride when the opening bid is $30,000. It's countered, countered again, and the price continues to rise, but the one thing I _don't_ hear is Brian bidding. That makes me anxious even though I know that the whole thing has already been arranged and he's the one who gets me. It's silly, but as the bidding becomes more heated, and the men call out numbers, I start to panic. What if he doesn't buy me? Maybe this is his idea of a joke? A new way to create a threesome? Do I stop the whole thing if some other guy starts to take me away? That's when I realize, with a sudden jolt, that the guy who seems to be winning the bid is the short, dark-haired man whom I hated the moment he touched me. I raise my head to glare at him. Dominic doesn't notice, though, because the bid has just hit $60,000.   
  
"Sixty-five thousand dollars," the dark-haired man says triumphantly, and his words hang there in the air as the place goes quiet. Oh, my God! I'm so caught up in what's happening that all I can think is, why doesn't Brian bid? I am _not_ going off with some ugly son of a bitch who doesn't know the first thing about being a top! He'll ruin the whole thing, he'll turn this from a pleasure into a nightmare, he'll make me—  
  
"One-hundred thousand dollars," Brian says just then in a voice that's unassailable.  
  
I raise my head, but Dominic catches me this time and gives me such a scary look that I drop my gaze back to the floor, heart beating fast.   
  
After repeating the figure several times, a silence seems to stretch into eternity. Finally, Dominic says, "Sold!" and it's done. Brian bought me for $100,000. I'm now his, completely his. The embarrassment disappears and for an instant, all I feel is a deep happiness that covers me like a toasty warm blanket. _Brian owns me_ , I think. Yeah, it's only a game, but still, right then, it feels great.   
  
Dominic steps off the platform to talk to Brian and leaves me there. Grumbling, the other men get up and gather around me, talking about rich men with money to burn and cute slaves with great asses. I didn't think I could be humiliated again, but standing there listening to their comments, I realize that my feelings are all over the place. Not a surprise, I guess, under the circumstances. I want to raise my head and say something to them especially the guy who wanted to buy me, who's hands are _still_ wandering. I try to move away, but he pulls me back toward him. "One last feel, okay?" he says in a phony sweet voice, and moves to rub my cock again.  
  
"Go to fucking hell!" I tell him, but at that moment, Brian appears, pushing his way through the crowd.  
  
He gives me a look, the displeasure evident, but says nothing, grabbing my hand and pulling me off the platform. Too quickly, he takes me out of the room, across the lobby, and into the elevator. Role-playing game or not, I want my anger at that jerk justified, I want Brian's understanding and his sympathy, but, fuck, in order to get either one I'd have to drop out of character and I'm not prepared to do that—not until I reach the payoff of this little game.   
  
An instant later, he's unlocking the door to our suite and taking me inside. According to our plans, this is the part of the fantasy where I'm free to be more rebellious. Since I know Brian would never hurt me and trust him implicitly, I can fight him more and let him dominate me without fear of a flashback episode. Right now, I'm so fuckin' angry, I don't have to _pretend_ to be defiant.   
  
"Get your clothes off," Brian says in a voice heavy with lust as he pushes me toward the bedroom. "You need to start earning your keep."  
  
"No, I won't!" I jerk around. "Fuck, you could at least offer me a drink of water or _talk_ to me before you fuck me. I'm human, just like you! You don't have to treat me like a—"  
  
Brian grabs me by the shoulders and pulls me close, his hard body pressed to mine. I struggle to break free, pushing against him, digging in my feet, twisting my head when he moves to kiss me. But he holds me firmly with one hand, using the other one to pull my mouth to his, crushing our lips together in a kiss that makes my knees buckle. With an arm wrapped around my waist, he keeps me from falling, hard gaze fixed on my face as he cards fingers through my hair, touches my cheeks, lips, and chin with an ungentle hand, and runs a finger underneath the collar on my neck. "I think, little boy, it's time for a reality check." His eyes glitter in a way that sends chills down my spine.  
  
"Fuck off!" I practically spit in his face, but he hauls me through the bedroom and on into the bathroom where he thrusts me up against the mahogany vanity, facing the mirror.   
  
Holding me in place with his body, his erection pushing against my ass, he unbuckles the collar around my neck and tosses it aside. "That marked you as a slave," he says as he reaches into a nearby drawer. He pulls out something and in an instant a thin cable of cold, black metal maybe a quarter of an inch in diameter is coiled securely around my neck. I touch it as he fastens it in the back and find it thin, and pliable. "This marks you as _my_ slave," he says when he finishes.  
  
I stare at the collar in the mirror, fascinated and horrified and so turned on I'm afraid to move. My gaze meets his. "Maybe you can control my body, but you can't control what I think or-or who I am." I speak to him in a trembling voice, the emotions from downstairs returning as I feel the injustice of it all. "You can fuck me all you want, but you can't change my mind, you can't make me be what you want me to be no matter what you do."  
  
"You think not?" He reaches around me, slides his hands down my arms, and repositions them on the vanity top, my hands flat on the marble surface. "Don't move." I raise my hands only to have them slammed back into place. He looks at me in the mirror and there is a deadly seriousness in his eyes. "Don't. Move."  
  
Drawing a shaky breath, I do as he says, feeling like one of those multiple personalities as the lust and anger war in my mind and body. That man with the dark hair treated me like a cipher, a nobody, a person who didn't exist. Okay, I know it's only role-playing, but somehow it's got me worked up, it's awakened something in me, something that has to do with the real Justin Taylor out there in the real world. And now Brian's doing the same thing: he's denying who I am. Okay, he's supposed to in the fantasy because he's the master and I'm the slave, but isn't this how he is with me, in real life? Isn't that really what's bothering me? Insisting we have a certain kind of _non_ -relationship, that we behave in certain ways, that I don't say certain words to him, or even feel certain things? Yeah, he does, and I realize a little of that is feeding my anger. And that makes me feel … well, crazy, fuckin' crazy.  
  
Slowly, Brian unfastens my pants. He pulls them down until he can get to my cock, sliding a hand around to fist it until I moan at each stroke. "One of the things you're going to learn very soon is that I'm in control of you, that I control _everything_ including your pleasure." He pushes up my chin so that I'm forced to look at myself in the mirror. "See that? You. Controlled by me." His hand continues its movement and I watch the erotic delight that dances in my eyes. "You have no life, no thoughts, no actions except what I give you. _That's_ the truth here!" He smacks me on the ass, the sound echoing in the bathroom along with my startled yelp. "And the first lesson you need to learn is that you _never_ disrespect me." He hits me again and again, and it hurts, but it also feels good, God, so good. Again, his hand comes down and I jerk, groaning at the fiery warmth spreading across my bottom. "The next time I have to discipline you," he growls close to my ear so that the words seem to vibrate there, "it'll be with a strap and I promise you, you won't sit down for a week." A delicious shiver races through me and I have to press my lips together to keep another moan at bay. He slaps my ass again, his other hand still working its magic so that, despite my best efforts, I'm just on the edge, ready to lose it.   
  
"Don't," I say weakly, but I keep my hands where he put them, watching him in the mirror. Brian rubs my throbbing ass, his unreadable gaze locked on mine. Then he curves his hand around the back of my neck, his warm fingers resting there, and, with gentle care, pushes me down so that my cheek is mashed against the vanity's countertop. I can't see anything he's doing, but hear a drawer open and the rustle of plastic. Then I feel his cock, slathered in cold, slick lube, about to enter me. "Don't! What're you doing? Don't!" Fuck, I asked him to do this and now I'm complaining? But not being prepared first—wow, what was I thinking? "Stop!"   
  
He hesitates, his hand on my back, and I know he's waiting to see if I'll use my safeword.  
  
Fuck, I am a complete wuss. I'm his slave, right? And I hate him right now because he doesn't see me as human. What happened to my rebellion? "Go to fucking hell!" I yell and struggle harder. "I hate you! I fuckin' hate you!"  
  
"Hate me all you want, little boy." Brian's voice is deep and gruff. "But you'll _still_ obey me." And then, with a push, he enters me.  
  
Oh, God, it hurts so fucking much! I try to move, but I'm trapped between Brian and the vanity. He has his hands clamped on my hips to keep me still, but he's going slowly and after a minute, just when I think I'm going to regret this whole fucked up slave-boy-gets-raped routine, I start to adjust. Suddenly, oh, my God, suddenly everything changes and the pain transforms into an intense, mind-blowing, salacious and, yes, _lewd_ sensation unlike anything I've ever experienced. I'm being invaded and possessed, I'm overpowered, forced to do what I don't want to do ... and I _love_ it. Brian's hand is on my dick again and I shout something as he pounds into me, but I don't know what because I'm no longer in Vermont or even on planet Earth. I'm someplace where the light is vivid and the colors are many, where I'm grounded by the punishment inflicted on my body, yet floating atop wanton, voluptuous clouds that seem to caress every inch of my flesh.   
  
Right then, Brian speaks at my ear, his deep voice rumbling. "I am going to fuck you until you learn to love it, until you can't imagine a day without it, until you _beg_ me to give it to you no matter how much it hurts."   
  
With a shout, I come, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, screaming as the steamy pleasure rips through me. Everything goes blank and I'm blind, deaf, speechless, an animal without conscious thought. Then I hear Brian breathing at my ear; I feel his weight on me; I smell jizz and sweat. Somewhere in all of that, he came too.   
  
Oh, shit—that was amazing, so fuckin' amazing.  
  
It doesn't end there, though. Hell no. Brian never does anything halfway. So, there's another three hours of down-and-dirty, dom-versus-sub, slave-versus-master sex: in the shower, on the floor in front of the fireplace, and, finally, in the four-poster bed. There's more discipline too, although no belt ever appears despite Master Brian's threats. My butt, though, gets a workout, and I bet I'll have bruises in the morning. It isn't until nearly midnight, as we're lying on the bed side-by-side after our last encounter, that Brian calls an end to the role-playing, which is how we'd agreed to do it.. I'm sure it's because he's tired. Fuck, I'm twelve years younger and _I'm_ exhausted. Okay, I had the demanding role of slave, but still, he did a lot of spanking and fucking and dominating—he has to be worn out.  
  
"God, that was so fucking hot," I say after a few moments of trying to breathe normally. Rolling to one side, I kiss him on the cheek and see him smile, but then I lay back on the bed. "You make such a great master." I touch the collar still around my neck. "I always want to be sold to you."  
  
Brian makes a sound. "Maybe I won't buy you the next time," he says, and I can hear the tiredness in his voice.  
  
"You almost didn't buy me tonight. I freaked out when you weren't bidding."  
  
Brian huffs out a laugh. "That was the intention."  
  
"You're a tough master."  
  
"And you're surprised?"  
  
"Hell, no."  
  
More silence. Then I sigh. "Thanks, Brian. That was so wonderful. All of this, this whole trip, it's been like … like I died and went to heaven. The best five days of my life."  
  
By my side, Brian flinches.  
  
"What's wrong?" I lift myself to move toward him, but, at that same instant, he suddenly raises an arm like he's going to slip it around me. His elbow hits me so hard that I fall back onto the bed with a strangled cry. I grab my nose as a bolt of pain slams through me. "Fuck!"  
  
"Justin!" Brian sounds anguished, the concern evident in his voice though I can't see him. "Shit! Are you all right?"  
  
My nose throbs like a son of a bitch and when I pull my hands away, there's blood on both of them. I stare at the redness, stunned, then feel the warm flow down my face. Fuck! I touch the blood as it crosses my mouth, barely able to comprehend what's happened.  
  
Then I look up.  
  
That's when I see Brian, his eyes wide and unseeing, his face drained of color, his lips trembling.   
  
He stares at me. Frozen. Unmoving.  
  
"Brian?" I say to him.   
  
I touch his arm, but he doesn't move, his expression doesn't alter.

"Brian, are you all right?"


	25. Chapter 25

[ ](http://photobucket.com)

~ 25 ~  
  
_"Something happened to me, something bad, and no one wants to talk about it, no one wants to tell me it's okay to feel angry and-and scared and confused and all the other things I feel."_  
  
  
  
_Cradling Justin in my arms, my heart pounds in grief-stricken rage. All I can do is sit here and watch as he slips away. There's blood running from the wound, spreading on the ground, on the scarf, on me. So much blood and no matter how hard I try, I can't stop it._  
  
_Make no mistake about it, he's leaving me. I know that's what's happening. Dying right here in my arms while I hold on, refusing to let him go. I'm not surprised though. Shouldn't be surprised. They always leave._  
  
_Always._  
  
_Where the fuck are the paramedics, the ambulance, the people who said they'd call 911? Justin is cold, so fuckin' cold, and doesn't react when I call to him, when I beg him to hang on. He's dying. Don't they understand that, doesn't it mean anything to them?_  
  
_"Brian?"_  
  
_I look up, shocked to find Brendan standing there. Brendan? Fuck, he doesn't belong here, he isn't a part of this. I didn't even know he existed when—_  
  
_"It's all right," he says, and holds out a bouquet of red roses, offering them to me. "Here, take these. Justin will be okay."_  
  
_"Get those away from me!" I clutch Justin tighter, the sweet fragrance of the roses washing over me. They're wrong, somehow, those roses. Wrong. Dangerous. A threat of some kind. And I won't let them anywhere near—_  
  
_"They're not wrong," Brendan says and I look up to see him still holding them out, a goofy smile on his face. "Look." As he speaks, petals fall, deep red rose petals._  
  
_"No!" I pull Justin closer, but the petals hit him anyway. Flinching, I look down at Justin and …_  
  
_The blood is gone._  
  
_All of it._  
  
_There's nothing on Justin._  
  
_Except petals._  
  
_Red rose petals._  
***  
"Brian?"  
  
My eyes snap open. I look into Dominic's eyes, my thoughts swirling as the adrenaline pulsates through my veins with such force my arms and hands tingle. The metallic taste in my mouth makes me think I might've bitten my lip.   
  
_What the fuck?_  
  
"Hi." He smiles down at me. "You okay?"  
  
My heart beats too fast, I'm breathing in gasps, and none of this makes any sense, but, just when I start to doubt my sanity, the whole fuckin' thing comes back, in sharp focus. Justin. Vermont. Dominic and the Flight of Fancy. And me, smashing the kid in the nose with my elbow. "Justin!" I jerk upright and move to get out of the bed.   
  
"He's all right." Dominic doesn't try to restrain me, moving aside when I throw back the covers.   
  
My feet hit the rug with a soft thud. "What the fuck happened? I was—"  
  
"You had a flashback episode." Dominic searches the room until he locates a pair of jeans. He grabs them, offering them to me. "This should work."  
  
I quickly pull them on, attempting to get my chaotic thoughts under control. "Why're you here?"  
  
"Justin called us, and he sounded so upset we dropped everything and came right down, but, Brian, he's all right." He makes a motion toward the other room. "Clayton is with him. You didn't hit him that hard and we have a very well stocked medical emergency kit. I checked him out, and he's fine. He's got an ice pack on his nose and Clayton is making him some tea."  
  
"I fuckin' hit him in the nose, Dominic—he's _not_ fine."  
  
"It was an accident." Dominic cocks an eyebrow. "He's more upset about the episode."  
  
Scrubbing at my face too hard, rough whiskers scrape against my palms. "It was not a fucking flashback episode," I tell him emphatically, although I know I'm full of shit. "I just … blood sometimes affects me and—"  
  
"Oh, really?" He makes a faux innocent face and rolls his eyes toward the ceiling. "Weren't you the one who helped us that time we had the skiing accident back in '99? I don't seem to remember you being queasy about blood then and it was all over the place."   
  
Shit, I don't know why I've been friends with him so long. He always makes me furious. What the hell did he ever do for me except maybe give me a little advice the first time I was at the inn? "Fuck off." I walk around him and head for the living room.  
  
"Brian." Dominic follows, and puts a hand on my shoulder to stop me. "Would you listen to me for a second?" His voice has dropped to a deep, intimate rumble. "One of the biggest mistakes you can make with PTSD is being ashamed of it, and handling that shame by covering it up, by not talking."  
  
"Thank you for the advice, but I don't—"  
  
"You'll make Justin feel like _he's_ crazy if you keep denying it. I know you think you're protecting him, but he's not ten, Brian, he's eighteen, and deserves some respect."  
  
There's a sound in the other room, a soft beeping, but I ignore it. "I give him plenty of respect."  
  
"Do you?"  
  
I turn to face him, the anger making me rigid and still. "You know, Dominic, I appreciate all your help with this, with the fantasy stuff, with everything you've done, but right now, you need to fucking _back off_ because this is none of your goddamn business and I'm fucking fed up with you playing the role of relationship counselor!"  
  
Dominic is unruffled. "That's fine, Brian. When you get a moment, though, ask yourself this: what was Justin really saying to you in that whole slave/master fantasy?" He goes around me, heading for the door. "You might be surprised by the answer."  
  
Lips clamped together, I follow.   
  
Justin is seated on the couch, legs folded under him, the blanket around his shoulders tucked close. It looks like he's wearing sweats, and there's a blue plastic ice pack pressed to his face. Nearby, Clayton is removing a steaming cup from the microwave. I sit down next to Justin. "Hey."  
  
"Hi." His smile wavers a little. "You okay?"  
  
I see the intense worry in those eyes and slip an arm around his shoulders. "Couldn't be better. How are you?" I can't believe I did this to him. Everything's ruined and it's my fuckin' fault. His mother isn't far off, is she? About me. "Let's see the nose."  
  
He lowers the icepack and I'm relieved to see that his nose looks all right—maybe a little swollen, but not much, with a few flecks of blood, but thankfully not enough to—  
  
"You'll have to let me know when you're coming down to breakfast tomorrow." Dominic speaks with gentle humor from where he's observing us. "I want to be there when people get a glimpse of how you've 'abused' your slave."  
  
Shit. He's right. It's a fuckin' reputation I don't need. "Thanks," I say as Clayton sets down the tea on the table next to Justin. "I appreciate you guys coming over here so quickly ..." _…given the fact that I totally fucked up_. But I don't say that because it's none of their business how I feel or what guilt I'm carrying.  
  
"That's our cue." Dominic clasps Clayton on the shoulder. "Let's get out of here."  
  
"Thank you, both of you," Justin says, and he receives some admonitions about the icepack, and pain relievers from Dominic, some gentle hugging from both of them, and then they're gone. As soon as the door closes, Justin turns his attention back to me. "Are you really okay?"  
  
"Fine." I drop my arm and let him draw part of the blanket around me, watching the anxiety bloom in his eyes once more. Good going, Kinney. You brought him on a vacation so he'd have a great time and now you've done this. "I'm more concerned about you."  
  
He stares, that gaze of his like Superman's x-ray vision. "Tell me," he says finally and lowers the icepack.  
  
My gaze drops to a fascinating study of my hands. "Nothing to tell."  
  
"Brian, tell me. I was there that time, at Claire's, remember? You did the same thing then that you did just a few minutes ago, going pale and spacing out like-like you lost your mind."  
  
I stick my tongue in my cheek and try to look amused though I'm not sure I'm succeeding. "Well, you never know, the losing your mind part just might be true."  
  
Justin's exhausted and upset and, yeah, freaked out so that answer does not fly. "It was a flashback episode, wasn't it?"  
  
"You're the one who—"  
  
"Brian, tell me the truth. You can't control it, can you? The sight of blood or maybe something red, like the swirl of red in those rosary beads, triggers yours. And then you just … you're back at the bashing, right? You're reliving it just like I do when I have a flashback."  
  
"Justin, you can't—"  
  
"Please!" Justin gives my arm a shake. "What can't we talk about it? We never talk about it and you're the only other person who was there, the only one who knows what it was like, what went down—you know all the stuff I've forgotten."  
  
"Do you think I _want_ to know that shit?" I ask him like I've said it a thousand times, and, fuck, I have, in my head. "I do everything I can to _forget_ it."  
  
He puts the icepack back in place. "Did it ever occur to you that talking about it might be the best way to forget? Maybe you need to get it out of your system."  
  
"No."  
  
He studies my face and must see my resolve because he tosses the icepack aside, fresh determination in his eyes. "That's what you always do! Handle me like I'm a mental patient, like I'll break into a million pieces if we discuss anything negative." His gaze is fixed firmly on my face. "You have absolutely no faith in me, do you? None. I'm just this kid you have to watch over, the poor bashed kid who isn't strong enough for the truth, who'll never be anything more than a-a leech, dependent on you, living through you, never his own person, never able to confront his fears." He stops, drawing in rough air as if he can't get enough of it. "God, Brian, you make me so angry! Something happened to me, something bad, and no one wants to talk about it, no one wants to tell me it's okay to feel angry and scared and confused and all the other things I feel. Then I look at you and you were there and yet you give the appearance of being completely unaffected by all the blood and gore and everything else that went on. And that makes me furious!" Tears fill his eyes. "Know why? Because either I _am_ a weak fucked up kid who can't deal with anything, who's got nothing inside to fall back on, and has to be protected from the truth of what happened, or you're lying to me about the PTSD, you're holding back and not sharing this information about yourself. Either way, I'm screwed!"  
  
I watch the first tear roll down his face, but don't move to wipe it away. One of the things I like to deny—and I'm great at denial—is that I'm a sort of mentor to Justin. Shit, mentors don't fuck the people they're counseling, so it has a nasty tinge to it, but let's be clear: it's true. And that part of me, the mentor part who advises Justin, who's vested in seeing him successfully grow up, that part is appalled. Chris Hobbs, all by his fucked up self, has done enough to derail Justin ten times over. Now I'm adding to it? "I'm not lying." I say nonetheless.  
  
More tears slide free. "You are lying if you refuse to admit there's a problem."   
  
"I don't have problems, I—"  
  
"You see what I mean? You watched me get hit in the head with a baseball bat. You sat with me in the garage, waiting for the ambulance. And you even stayed at the hospital for three days, to see if I'd live or die. Yet …" He gives his head a futile shake, "it means nothing. It's had no effect on you."  
  
"I never fucking said it didn't have an effect. You know that's not true. Why the hell do you think I've rearranged my whole life so you can fucking live with me? If it'd had no effect, do you think I would've done that? Do you think your mother's tearful pleas would've met anything to me? Do you think I would've struggled week after week with your flashbacks and nightmares and every other fucked up thing that went with what Chris Hobbs did to you?"  
  
More tears slip down his face. "So, I'm just a charity case to you!"  
  
I rake a frustrated hand through my hair. "You are not a fuckin' charity case! You're a person, someone I … someone who's life is important to me, who's part of my life, who I …"  
  
"You can't even say it, can you? You can't say that you care. That's too close to love and love is something you never do, no matter what.''  
  
"You're someone I _care_ for," I say with a great deal of emphasis on the word, "and I think I've shown that in a lot of ways, I think you ought to look at—"  
  
"Look at what? How you won't talk to me about something we share, something that's impacted your life so significantly, something that nearly killed me?" Justin wipes his face, lower lip trembling, a regular fall down mess. "Why am I surprised? I shouldn't be! I've watched you operate. I know how you are. Fuck, you wouldn't even come see me in the hospital." His breathing becomes even more accelerated and I worry that we're headed for trouble, that "bad" stress the doctor warned us about. "Do you know how mad I was about that? How, in the hospital, I lay in bed at night and tried not to cry because it just made my head hurt worse?"  
  
"Speaking of your head hurting worse, we—"  
  
He sits up straighter, fresh anger flaring in his eyes. "Shut the fuck up! It's time you heard all of this! Yeah, I worked extra hard to get out of rehab because I had to come see you, to find out why you'd done such a fucked up thing like that after-after a night that'd apparently been really wonderful, although, fuck, I still can't remember any of it!"  
  
I lay a hand on his arm. "Justin, you have to calm down."  
  
He shakes me off. "I won't! I'm freaked out, Brian. You're sitting right here beside me after a fantastic night, a night I'll always remember, one of the best nights of my life, and suddenly you're back to being the man I met outside Babylon, closed down, emotionless, a guy who believes in fucking, not love."  
  
I grit my teeth 'til my jaw aches, but I have to keep a grip on my anger. "That's what we did tonight! _Fucking_! Or have you forgotten?"   
  
"It was more than that, much more."  
  
God, I hate Dominic because right then I remember his question: what was Justin really saying in that tableau? "Justin, maybe we should—"  
  
"Why won't you tell me about your flashback?" Justin says in a rising voice, a note of near-hysteria there. "Don't I deserve to know something that's as much a part of your life as it is mine? Are you afraid I'll think less of you? That I'll despise you because you're weak? Fuck, you wouldn't be weak, Brian, you'd be human! Why do you think I love you? It's the whole you, the real you, the _you_ no one else sees whom I love the most!"  
  
"All right!" I speak loudly because all the queening is getting on my nerves. And maybe because I can't stand the fuckin' sorrow I hear in his voice. God, haven't we had enough sorrow to last a lifetime? We stare at each other, both of us breathing too fast. I use a thumb to wipe his cheek. "All right," I say again, much softer.  
  
Justin's eyes are dark, stormy, the shadows on his face shadows of exhaustion, pain, and fear. He doesn't speak, but one eyebrow goes up.  
  
"It's … I guess it's … what's happening is a-a flashback episode," I manage to spit out in a choked voice.  
  
"Like I described it?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Did anyone ever diagnose—"  
  
"That fuckin' nurse at the hospital, Janice, she told me that's what it was and—" But right then my overtired brain catches up with the words and I shut my mouth so fast my teeth click.  
  
"Janice?" Justin blinks slowly, the thoughts behind those eyes flying, I know, a million miles an hour. "Janice was the night nurse at rehab. How could you know her?"  
  
I reach for an explanation. Something. Anything. "Your mother must've mentioned her to me."  
  
"No, you said Janice diagnosed the PTSD for you. That's what you just said." Justin reaches over and grasps my chin, his fingers quite firm. He turns my face so I have to look at him. "You were at the hospital? When I was in rehab?"  
  
I stare at him, but can't think of a thing to say.  
  
"Brian?" His fingertips tighten a little. "Please, answer me. _Please._ "  
  
I examine the tense lines in his face. As I do, that stupid, fucking feeling, the one I've been avoiding, the one I want to deny, hits me again, full force. "Yeah, I was there," I say like a guy who took a punch in the solar plexus and can't think straight, "every night, after you'd gone to sleep."  
  
"Every night?" Justin whispers in shock. "Why didn't you tell me?"  
  
I shrug. Shit, do I know why? "It wasn't important."   
  
"Not important? Because … you're not important?" Justin's eyes again fill with tears. "That's why, isn't it?" he says with a certainty well beyond his years. "You were there, watching over me because I'm important. But you? You're shit, you're nothing because … you caused it. That's what you think, right? You told me that once and it's _still_ what you think. You fuckin' blame yourself for the whole thing. And because of that, you have to save me from you, which means I shouldn't know when you do something nice. Oh, Brian! God!" He makes a little noise, a gasp, maybe or a sob, and presses his face against my shoulder, hands wrapped around my arm like he's hanging on for dear life. His body trembles as he cries, a pitiful, heartbroken sound that tears at my heart and fractures whatever calm I thought I possessed.  
  
For a stunned moment, I can't move or think or even breathe. This whole evening has turned into a fuckin' roller coaster ride and I don't know if I can stand another sharp curve. Shit, if that's how I feel, though, what's it doing to Justin? "Hey." I extract my arm from his grasp so I can draw him into an embrace. "You have to stop this." I hold him close, and rub his back, noticing how ragged my own voice sounds. "We'll, uhm, talk about the bashing, okay? And the-our flashbacks. All of it." I kiss him behind his left ear and feel him shiver. "But first you have to calm down."  
  
He pulls back enough to show me his wet face. "You are a wonderful person," he says with ferocious intensity as he grabs me by the arms and shakes me. "You can't do that to yourself, Brian! You can't!"  
  
"Okay, I won't."  
  
"You _did not_ cause the bashing and you know that." He shakes me again. "I was stupid. I made an enemy all by myself without your help. We both know that so if anyone's responsible, it's me."  
  
But I'm not about to let that pass. "No, you aren't responsible and saying so doesn't change that." I speak in a firm voice. "Pissing someone off doesn't give them the right to attack you. Got it?"  
  
"But I—"  
  
"Got it?"  
  
"Okay, but _you_ have to get it too."  
  
"Fine, okay, that's how it was. It's all on the asshole, and we'll talk about it, later."  
  
"You won't talk—you never talk. Just like tonight."  
  
"What have I been doing for the last ten minutes?" I reach across him and retrieve the tea, which gives off the scent of flowers and must be herbal. "Now, I want you to drink this and then we're going back to bed. And you're calming down."  
  
"You have to promise first that we really will talk about the bashing, the prom, all of it."  
  
"What are we, two kids who have to swear on our sainted mothers' graves before—?"  
  
" _Promise._ "  
  
I hand him the tea. "While you drink …" I raise my hand, fingers folded Boy Scout style, "…I'll make the promise. We _will_ talk later, okay?" With a little huff, he relaxes, gives me a wobbly smile, and, with my help, drinks some of the tea. Without making it seem hurried, I find some tissues so he can blow his nose, tuck the blanket around him, and make sure he drinks all the tea because he's shivering. When he's finished, we make our way back to the bedroom. Of course, there's a wet spot in the bed, but some towels take care of that. We undress and climb in, Justin moving into my arms, his warm body automatically sliding close to mine. He's not going to last long, that much I can tell. "Comfortable?" I ask him as we settle down, his head against my shoulder.  
  
"Yeah." He shifts a little. "I can't believe you were at the hospital." He draws a deep breath. "I used to dream about you. Maybe that's why." He wraps a leg around mine and touches the black, titanium collar still around his neck. "What a night," he says and already he sounds drowsy.  
  
"Do you want to take off the collar? Is it too tight?"  
  
"No. I'm never taking it off." He yawns hugely. "I love it."  
  
"You want everyone to think you're into the whole D/s scene?" I ask him with some amusement. "That you're okay being a slave?"  
  
"I don't care." He lets out a deep sigh. "Besides, I'm not just a slave, I'm _your_ slave."  
  
Right then, in a startling epiphany, the whole fuckin' event, from beginning to end, comes into sharp focus and I realize what Dominic wanted to tell me. Justin went through that entire scene downstairs for one reason, didn't he? _Recognition._ My eyes close as the thought crashes over me. He wanted to be recognized by me, deemed important, worthy, someone who counts. So, he let himself be possessed in a fantasy drama that demanded I notice him, that set him squarely in my path so that I couldn't ignore him. Hell, no, just the opposite was true. I bought him, I owned him, I acknowledged his importance to every fag in the room.   
  
Shit.   
  
He did all of that so that symbolically I'd show him that I cared. He did that so he'd _mean_ something to me, something real, something tangible.  
  
Listening to his soft breathing, I can't believe I didn't see that until now. It's so obvious, almost embarrassingly so. Forget the bullshit hearts-and-flowers love and romance stuff. If I'm reading this correctly, Justin wants acknowledgement.  
  
He wants to _matter_ to me.  
  
It's that simple.  
  
And I've been a fool not to see it.  
  
A complete fool.


	26. Chapter 26

[](http://photobucket.com)

 

~ 26 ~  
  
_He said he'd call in two months and he didn't. He said he'd e-mail me, keep in touch while he was gone, blah, blah, blah. He didn't do that either._  
As I come through the front door, I remove the backpack and camera bag from my shoulder and, as I set them on the floor, I'm immediately twenty pounds lighter. "Hi. Sorry I'm late."  
  
Lindsay smiles and I see instant sympathy in her eyes. "You look beat. Let me make you a cup of coffee."  
  
"Thanks, but I have to get to the next assignment right away." I realize Gus is toddling toward me. "Hey, big guy." I crouch down. "How you doing?"  
  
"Bin-Bin," he says as he flings himself into my arms. I started out as "Dada," graduated to "Den," and eventually ended up "Bin-Bin," which is pretty close to Bam-Bam, but, hell, I don't care. I might even be flattered. "Hug-hug-hug," I murmur as I do just that, my arms full of the cutest baby ever, my nose buried in his silken hair. "It's good to see you, Gus. Taking good care of your mother?"  
  
"Mama," Gus replies and wiggles out of my grasp so he can point to Lindsay.  
  
"Exactly right." Damn, he looks so much like Brian—it's scary sometimes. Yeah, he has Lindsay's smile, but his coloring, his eyes, his entire demeanor, it's all Brian. I stand, giving Lindsay my best pained expression. "I'm sorry, Lindsay. Every time I'm over here, I'm in and out in a flash, but—"  
  
"Don't apologize." She hands Gus a few crackers and puts on a Blues Clues episode for him to watch. Then she motions me to follow her to the dining room where her makeshift office is located. "After all, you're working two jobs."  
  
As I set down my bags for a second time, I wonder why I thought that was a good idea. Had I been drinking or what? Yeah, here it is, almost the end of March, and I have a full-time job with the _Times_ —401K, health and life insurance, two weeks vacation, all kinds of good stuff—plus I'm working the Three Rivers project. I still can't believe that the Piermarini thing fell into my lap with such ease, although, many nights when I struggling to stay awake at 2:00 a.m., working on the laptop or looking through a mound of contact sheets, I wonder what I was thinking. It's weird. I went from zero to eighty miles an hour in about one-point-two seconds. I remember with longing how I used to drop into the coffee shop close to where I live and while away an hour, checking e-mail and talking to photographers in my on-line forum. Fuck, if I had that hour now, I'd be sound asleep. "Well, thanks," I say in response to Lindsay's kind words.  
  
"It's only the truth!" she says with a laugh, and begins to rummage around on the table. "Where did I put your mail?"  
  
Yeah, not only am I shooting photos for the restaurant at a furious rate, Lindsay's helping me. Given the deadline for the project and the sheer amount of work involved, I didn't have any other choice. A week after the show, Marco approved my estimate and gave me the project. I had to essentially pick up my camera and start working so I didn't have time to look for someone to help me. Even though I had reservations about Lindsay's involvement, I offered her the part-time position, and she took it.   
  
"Okay, here's the mail," she says just then, and lays a stack of it on the unoccupied portion of the table where she and Mel eat. Most of the bills come straight to her since she handles the money. "Here's your memory cards. I uploaded everything and it's all on the website. And here's your contact sheets, and—oh!" She turns away again, searching for something. "I got the battery pack for your flash too."  
  
I crouch down, open the backpack, and begin to put everything she's given me inside. Let's face it, she's a godsend. Every single thing she does makes it possible for me to focus on my shooting schedule, which, of course, has to revolve around my newspaper assignments. It can be such _great_ fun. "Thank you. I know I keep saying the same thing, but I don't know how I'd do this without you."  
  
"It's my pleasure," she says as she returns with a plastic bag and hands it down to me.   
  
I look inside and, yep, it's a new battery pack, which I desperately need since the one I'm using with my flash is getting very temperamental. "Thanks." I stuff that in with everything else and stand back up to face her. "Uh, did you get a chance to cut the checks for—?"  
  
"I did." She reaches onto the table again and hands me two envelopes. One is addressed to Joette Ziemke, who's been assisting me with the portrait shots. She's a PIFA student Justin found through one of his professors. The other envelope is for Justin himself. Talk about keeping it in the family. Justin does most of the matting and framing for me. He'll even be at the restaurant on Sunday when we hang the first pictures in the Skyview room, which is the only one ready for photos since it's been painted, the tile flooring is done, and the furniture is all in place. That should be fun since Marco will be there and he's such a perfectionist. I've already warned Justin that the man likes to micromanage, but he didn't seem concerned. Of course, ever since he and Brian came back from their Vermont vacation in January, they've changed. I have no idea what happened during those five days, but whatever it was, it made one hell of a difference in their relationship. So, these days, nothing seems to bother Justin, not even someone like Marco. "Thanks. Did you—?"  
  
She hands me another envelope like she can read my mind, which I'm sure she can. "Here's your check."  
  
"And the books are … everything's on track? We're not over budget or—?"  
  
"Now, listen to me, mister." She takes on the mothering tone I've heard her use before. "You're getting way too stressed out over everything. I told you yesterday that the books are fine."  
  
"Oh, that's right. I forgot. I—"  
  
"You're going to sit down right now and take a moment to have a drink of water." She pulls out one of the dining room chairs.  
  
"Thanks, Lindsay, but I really can't—"  
  
"You _can_." She pushes me from behind then guides me to the chair where she exerts pressure until I sit down. "Don't move."  
  
"Lindsay—"  
  
"Don't. Move."  
  
Rolling my head, right to left, I sit there listening to the lilting music coming from Gus's DVD. I hate to admit it, but I like Lindsay's little forays into the care-and-comfort-of- _me_. That's one of the perks you get when you're in a relationship, one that I miss. Someone looks after you. Someone cares. And, fuck, even though I'm still wary of Lindsay and often wonder what she's up to, it's kind of nice the way she's been looking after me. Without meaning to, I sigh. Shit, if I let myself go down that particular path, in another second I'll be thinking about how my love life sucks. Maybe I should say, what love life? It doesn't exist especially given everything I'm doing right now. Brian's tried to get me to go with him to Babylon a couple of times, to "ease the tension," as he jokingly puts it, but he knows that's not my scene. Besides, it's barely his scene anymore, not when he has a beautiful blond always available to him, an almost nineteen year old who's got every good quality known to mankind. Yeah, picking up sweaty men in Babylon doesn't seem like much fun by comparison.   
  
"Here." Lindsay hands me an ice-cold bottle of water. "You need to take better care of yourself, Brendan. I notice you don't take time to eat or drink when you get fixated on your current shoot."  
  
I unscrew the top and take a generous swig of water. "I forget."  
  
"Well, tie a string around your finger!" From her position behind me, she laughs and clasps me on the shoulders. A second later, she's massaging. "Oh, by the way, Mayor Deekins' office called. They want to reschedule … again."  
  
She has strong hands and knows how to give a good massage, but the thing that worries me most is that I like what she's doing. No, I don't want to throw her down on the floor and have my way with her like the hero in some romance novel, but all the time we spend together … it's complicating an already complicated relationship. "I wonder if I'll ever get to photograph the honorable mayor," I say as I try to ignore how good the massage feels. "That makes, what? The fourth time he's rescheduled?"  
  
"Fifth."  
  
"Yeah, but does he still want to be photographed in his backyard, with his family, or has he gone back to the official portrait mode, in his office?"  
  
"The portrait mode. You're scheduled for his office on the fifth. He's up for reelection soon so maybe that has something to do with it."  
  
"You could be right." I close my eyes and can scarcely keep myself from sighing at her touch. God, I am so tired. I haven't had more than five hours of sleep in weeks. Why have I been so intent on photography all my life? Couldn't I just work in an office, maybe fix computers, or do sales? I'd be good at either one. Then I could go home every night at 5:00, have a decent meal I'd actually be able to prepare, and maybe even have time to look for a man, woman, Martian, _someone_. Pittsburgh has more than three hundred thousand people in it. Surely, one of them would be perfect for me. "Umm—" I say just then as my cell phone rings and the rest of the sentence evaporates. The massage ends as I root around in my camera bag for the thing and flip it open. It's Sarah, my boss, and she has an updated assignment for me. "Shit." An instant later I'm out of the chair. "I have to go, Lindsay. There's been a murder, down on Liberty."  
  
Lindsay's eyes go wide. "Where?"  
  
"Close to the diner."  
***  
It turns out that the murder is closer to the diner than I imagined since it's _behind_ Debbie's restaurant. As I stand there talking to Allyson Keown, the reporter from the _Times_ , about the shots she wants, I can feel the lump in my throat at the dead boy they found in the dumpster. God, someone treated him like he was nothing but trash to be thrown away. He was a real living, breathing human being. What's wrong with people? This is a _kid_ , someone Justin's age, and he never had a chance to grow up, to become someone, to live. Meanwhile, all I hear from the cops around me is snide remarks about him because he was a hustler. What difference does that make? Like being a hustler makes you less than human? People can be so fuckin' cruel.   
  
Allyson sees the lead detective and goes over to speak to him. That's when I notice that Debbie is standing a few feet away behind the police tape, arms crossed, looking less-than-friendly. I don't know whether I should speak to her or not, but, shit, given the circumstances, I decide that I will. Walking to that side of the crime scene, I take a deep breath, inhaling the unpleasant odor of rotting garbage and diner grease. Before I can speak, though, she turns in my direction. "Brendan," she says, a statement of fact more than a greeting. She's pale, her red lipstick and auburn hair color in stark contrast to her skin tone. Pressing her lips together, she stares at me.  
  
"Hi." I look over at the boy's body again, and suppress a shudder. No matter how long I do this job, I never get use to such things. "You found him?"  
  
"Is that an official question from _The Pittsburgh Times_?"  
  
I hear the hostility in her voice. "No, I'm just the photographer. Allyson over there is the one who'll ask the questions."  
  
"She can fuck off," Debbie says in a ragged tone. "I've got nothing to say."  
  
I stand there listening to the police radios out on the street blaring and the murmur of spectator voices all around us, and feel a little sick. "I'm sorry you had to see this, Debbie."  
  
"I've seen worse." She bites the corner of her lower lip. "He's just a kid, a fuckin' kid. Nobody even knows his name." Pulling her coat closer around her body, she gives her head a shake. "Life can be so short. Sometimes … you forget that."  
  
"True." I glance sideways at her and wonder if I should venture into this territory, but Allyson is still talking to the detective, so I have the time. What the hell. "Things like this definitely have a way of making people think about those things, about life and family and friends. Maybe this is a good time to make up with … Brian and Justin?"  
  
"Me make up with them?" She barks out a laugh. "You don't know me very well, do you, Brendan? They can fucking go to hell before I make up with them."  
  
"Why?"  
  
She looks at me like I've lost my mind. "I played a big part in both of their lives and this is how they pay me back? Fuck them. That's all I can say. Fuck 'em."  
  
The great thing here is that I have little to lose no matter what I say. That being the case, I might as well go for it. "So, you played a role in their lives, a kind of surrogate mother role, right?"  
  
"You fuckin' know that's the case! Why're you asking?"  
  
"Just trying to clarify." I scuff my feet on the ground underfoot. "So, really, for both Brian and Justin, you're the adult." I keep my voice calm and steady. "The grown-up."  
  
"Oh, so you think I ought to be the one who patches things up because I'm the mom?" she says with a sneer, but I notice a little wobble in her tone.  
  
When she fixes me with a stare, I don't blink. "Yeah, I do. Someone has to be, right?"  
  
"What about Michael? What's he going to—?"  
  
"Michael's his own person with his own relationships. He can work out his own issues, can't he?" I wave a hand at the dead boy in the dumpster. "Imagine how you'd feel if Justin turned up dead like that. He almost did, at one time, right? God, Debbie, the guilt would eat you alive, you know it would. You love that kid like he's your son. He's eighteen—almost nineteen years old. Young and idealistic and madly in love with Brian. Cut him a break."  
  
She looks up at me with daggers in her eyes, but there might also be tears there. "And Brian?" she asks, her tone challenging me like there's no way I can come up with a decent argument for _that_ fucker.  
  
"Brian's your son, isn't he? You know how he grew up. You know how insecure he is."  
  
"Brian Kinney, insecure?" She laughs though there's no humor in it. "That'll be the day."  
  
"Oh, come on, Debbie. You must've spent hours around Brian when he was a kid." I bite my lower lip 'til it hurts. "You must've seen the real person, the one who doubted everything about himself thanks to Jack and Joan. Fuck, I think you knew his mom, didn't you?"  
  
"I spoke to her on occasion."  
  
"And you didn't think she was an uptight, unhappy woman who took that unhappiness out on Brian?"  
  
"I never much cared for her," Debbie says and makes a curt, derisive noise. "She was a fuckin' bitch."  
  
"A bitch whom Jack called 'the warden.' Not a great environment for Brian to grow up in, was it?"  
  
Debbie snorts. "Okay, you've made your point. I still think—"  
  
"They _both_ need you," I say quickly, but then decide not to push my luck any further since I know she could probably rearrange my balls if she got pissed. "Anyway, that's my opinion."  
  
"Well, pardon my French, Brendan, but just what the fuck do you know?"  
  
"Not much, but—" However, right then, my cell phone rings, which may be my saving grace. I pull it out of my bag. "Excuse me." I step away from her and flip it open. "Hello?'  
  
"Bren?"  
  
My hearts gives a dramatic thump. It's Kelly. "Hi."  
  
There's a pause, and then he says, "I guess you thought I'd forgotten about you, huh?" in a small, pained voice.  
  
"Not really." Of course I have, but I'm not telling the son of a bitch _that_. "Uh, I've been busy."  
  
He laughs that rich, throaty laugh I know so well. "Wow, that sure sounds like a brush off. Touché. I deserve it."  
  
Okay, so he's onto me. He said he'd call in two months and he didn't. He said he'd e-mail me, keep in touch while he was gone, blah, blah, blah. He didn't do that either. So, who's brushing off whom? "What do you want, Kelly? I'm in the middle of work and—"  
  
"I want to see you." His voice drops to a whisper. "I just got back in the country yesterday and I'm tired and have a pile of work waiting to be done, but I want to come see you."  
  
"I take precedence over Hemingway? I guess I should be honored. Why?"  
  
Another pause, this one quite pregnant. "You know why. I told you that before. I miss you," he says all in a rush.  
  
I think about how much Dad would be scolding me right now for my grumpy attitude, but can't seem to keep myself from saying, "If you missed me so much how come you didn't call or at least e-mail me?" Churlish, definitely. And I'm enjoying it.  
  
He makes a hissing sound like he's blowing air between his teeth, a thing he does when he's saying something he's thought through. "I've been so busy, so caught up in my subject matter I felt like I couldn't give you my full attention—which is the only way I wanted to do it. I _didn't_ want to talk to you in a half-assed way, although, yeah, I should've at least dropped you an e-mail."  
  
Okay, that could be legitimate. I've been that way in the last few weeks what with the Three Rivers project breathing down my neck 24/7. Without realizing what I'm doing, I relax my grip on the phone and stop trying to jam it into my ear. "Okay, well, uh, I'm in the middle of shooting a murder so I need to focus on that and not—"  
  
"Ah, fuck, Bren, I'm sorry." His voice has dropped in a way that's so familiar and so damn comforting though I want to resist both. "I know how those things upset you. I'll call back later and—"  
  
"No, that's all right." Then, just like that, I'm enjoying how his voice soothes me and don't want it to stop. Shit, back in New York, whenever I was upset or having a bad day he'd throw me down on the bed in a heartbeat, crawl naked onto me, and massage my shoulders so hard he'd put Lindsay to shame. And that would only be the opening act. "Tell me what you're thinking, about coming down," I say as my cock stirs at that image.  
  
"How about this weekend? I don't want to wait. This whole thing between us, it's been fucked up and crazy. I want it to end." There's a long pause that's all static and little else. "I want you back," he says finally, a shake in his voice.  
  
"Kelly," I say, such a romantic that I immediately leap to practicalities, "I told you about my brother. I'm not likely to move back to New York even if we could patch things up. I like Pittsburgh and—"  
  
"We can figure that out later."  
  
"I'm not so sure I'd be up for one of those long distance relationships." I gesture with an outward thrust of one hand as I put more distance between me and the murder scene onlookers. "Flying to New York every other weekend would be fuckin' hard on my wallet not to mention—"  
  
"Brendan, would you calm down? No one's saying we have to have a long distance relationship. Maybe I'd just move to Pittsburgh, okay?"  
  
And that's when the blast of warmth hits, enveloping me from head to toe. Kelly would move to Pittsburgh? Did he really just say that? He'd move to Pittsburgh? To be with me? "Oh," is the only thing that comes out of my mouth.  
  
He laughs. "So, where should I meet you? Want to give me your address?"  
  
When I can think again, I decide that Woody's is a good choice and Sunday a good day since we're having a little birthday party for Justin on Saturday. Besides, I have an appointment at Heinz Field on Saturday. Yeah, I'm chicken-shit and don't want to meet him in an intimate surrounding like my apartment … at least, not until things are on more solid ground … if that's where they're going. But what about the family issue? He knows my views on that and I know his, or, at least, what they'd always been in the past. If none of that's changed, I don't see any reason to talk to him again and I'm being a big fool to think otherwise. "But what about the whole family thing? You're not going to tell me you've changed overnight and now you're fine settling down with me and the two-point-three children so—"  
  
"Bren?" His voice takes on a sharper tone as he tries to interject. "Would you listen to me? Fuck, you're such a drama queen."  
  
"Like you should talk!"  
  
"Okay, we're both drama queens." He takes a deep breath. "I'm not going to lie to you and tell you I'm totally and completely cured of my aversion to domestic life so that I can't wait to set up house with you. But I _have_ been thinking about it a lot and the idea of having you and a couple of kids to come home to … well, there just might be something to that notion, something I'd like to explore."  
  
Fuck, this is more than I thought I'd ever hear him say. He'd been so adamant before, so dead certain that the white-picket-fence lifestyle, as he called it, was only for pussies. Kelly is Irish through and through. His dad is one of those big, ham-fisted, redheaded Irishmen who can drink you under a table in the blink of an eye—kind of like Brian's dad. And Kelly, even though he's a blond rather than a redhead, has that same stubborn quality his dad has, an attitude that makes it nearly impossible for him to change his mind or modify a position. So, for him to make such an admission … that's huge. For a minute, I envision us back at my apartment after our big discussion, clothes everywhere, naked on my bed. My dick loves that thought. Fuck, Brian's right—I do need to get laid. "Okay." I try to sound relaxed and normal so he doesn't catch onto all the churning inside. "Then … Sunday, at 4:00. Woody's on Liberty Avenue."  
  
"You're working Sunday?"  
  
"I am." I give him a brief summary of the project I'm doing. "So, I'll be hanging some pictures and getting ready to hang others," I finish up.  
  
"Wow, that's so great," he says and sounds happy. "It's about time you got your break. I'm proud of you, Bren. No one deserves it more than you."  
  
That warmth threatens to overwhelm me and suddenly I need to open the top two buttons of my jacket. "Thanks." I catch Allyson out of the corner of my eye waving a hand at me. "Uh, I have to go, Kelly. If I don't start shooting soon, there won't be a body to record."  
  
"I'm looking forward to seeing you," Kelly says in that low, sexy way he has. "Sunday, then."  
  
"Yeah, uh, me too." I flip the phone shut and stand there like a big, skinny doofus, the smile on my face bright enough to illuminate the entire city of Pittsburgh.  
  
Oh, fuck.   
  
Fuck.  
  
Maybe Kelly and I really are right for each other.  
  
Maybe we have been all along.


	27. Chapter 27

[ ](http://photobucket.com)

 

~ 27 ~  
  
_The lovemaking has been … well, mind-blowing isn't even the right word. It's just a whole other thing, like we were in elementary school when we first met, but now we've graduated to a doctorate program._  
  
"Okay," I say that morning around 11:00 when we finally get around to having breakfast. "You're about to eat your words, literally." I scrape scrambled eggs onto two plates, and carry them to the living room where the Birthday Boy is lounging in blue sweats and bed-head hair.  
  
"I can't believe you _cooked_ something." His mouth is filled with chocolate donut so the words sound garbled. He watches as I set the plates on the coffee table, which is already filled with enough food to sustain a small army of marauding pygmies: bagels, strawberry Pop Tarts, chocolate _and_ glazed donuts, cherry Danish, cream cheese—plain and chive-flavored—sausages, coffee, cream, sugar, orange juice, and now, eggs that have been scrambled with cream cheese and a dash of dill. Staring at the eggs like they might not be real, Justin finally turns his gaze on me. "Are you sure they didn't come out of a secret compartment in the freezer and you just nuked them?"  
  
"Oh, ye of little faith." I sit down next to him and pick up his plate, scooping eggs onto a fork. "Open wide."  
  
He finishes the donut, gives me a big grin, and obeys so I can feed him his first bite. I watch as he chews, gratified when his eyes widen. "These are … oh, my God, these are edible! They're actually good!"  
  
I hand him the plate and pick up my own. "Fucker."  
  
"All this time, _you_ could've been cooking while I did my homework or, I don't know, jerked off in the shower," he says while he loads his plate with a bagel slathered in cream cheese, strawberry Pop Tart, cherry Danish, and four sausages. "I feel like you've misrepresented yourself, like I don't even know you."  
  
I wrinkle my nose at him, but wisely don't stick out my tongue since I'm eating. Picking up my orange juice from earlier, I take a couple of gulps, enjoying the sweet tartness as it rolls across my tongue. "I can't cook, Sunshine. I can make scrambled eggs. There's a big difference."  
  
He smiles, laying his head against my shoulder for a moment. "Will you do it again?" he asks as he makes big eyes at me.  
  
"Sure. Next year, when you turn twenty."  
  
"Wow, you're _so_ giving." Justin chuckles and shovels more food into his mouth.   
  
As per usual, I try not to smile. I'm doing too much of that shit and it'll ruin my reputation. Well, maybe not with Justin since he seems to love a grinning, insipid Brian Kinney almost as much as he loves getting his ass fucked. And he's gotten a lot of that since we first woke up this morning, the day of his nineteenth birthday. I asked him what he'd like to request from the sexual smorgasbord I'd spread out before him and his answer, as I could've predicted, was "everything." I gave him free rein, but, surprisingly, he did not choose to top me. Maybe it's the slave collar? He wears the damn thing all the time and it's become our number one sex toy. Earlier, for instance, while we were lying in bed after our shower, still trying to recover from _that_ experience, I took the narrow coil of black metal from his neck and put it on mine. Kneeling on the bed, I sat back on my legs, and assumed the classic submissive posture of a sub. Then, I asked "Master" what he desired of me. His cock stood to attention so fast, I thought Justin might shoot right there and then without _any_ human intervention, slave or otherwise. He asked for and received one of the best blowjobs of his life, but then he took back the collar and wanted to be spanked. I'm not too fond of that shit especially since what happened in Vermont, but I gave him a few whacks and he seemed to be satisfied. It doesn't take much, I've learned, to put him in that blissed out state of mind. "Stop trying to set a world record for the shortest breakfast in recorded history," I say as he bites into the Danish.  
  
His eyes sparkling, he dips a finger in the cherry filling and turns to dab it onto my face: cheeks, nose, and mouth. Then he sets the Danish aside and moves onto his knees so he can lick the goop off, his tongue soft and slippery against my skin. "Hmmm, this is a much slower way for me to eat my breakfast," he says before running his tongue along my lips. "Satisfied?"  
  
I slide a hand behind his neck, pull him to me, and give him a kiss that makes him melt against me. Fuck, the kid's easy. I can almost always have that effect on him. "There will be no more fooling around until you finish your food." I swat him on the rear. "You must've burned off two thousands calories this morning already."  
  
"I know. I'm having a _great_ birthday."  
  
My lips twitch, but I manage not to smile. Yeah, I confess. I'm glad to hear him say that. Fuck, I've lost my mind—what's the use of even denying it? Kissing him on the forehead, we both return to our food.   
  
The Vermont trip changed so much, including me. I sure as shit didn't plan it that way, but when it happened, there wasn't much I could do about it except roll with the punches. And, yeah, to some extent, that's what it was like: combat. Justin, as it turned out, was far from being over the bashing. As Dr. Parrack said during our first visit, if you dump a lot of data into a computer, but never give it an opportunity to process that data, you're going to have trouble eventually and it might just come in the form of a meltdown. We were lucky, I guess. Our trouble has been minimal. Yeah, there were a couple of intense discussions while we were still at the inn. I felt almost assaulted by the barrage of words coming at me especially since that's not my area of expertise—talking, I mean. Once the floodgates were opened, though, Justin needed to get it out, and, as it turned out, so did I. So, we talked and then talked some more.   
  
Justin has feelings about the bashing that shouldn't have been surprising, but were. For instance, he's so angry with Chris Hobbs he's like to murder him. He described the murder to Dr. Parrack, the psychologist my friend Matthew referred us to, and let me tell you, it was horrible and intense even by my standards. Of course, there was the other side of the coin too, like Justin wanting to know about the prom. Daphne had told him what happened numerous times, but he wanted it from my perspective including my feelings about every single moment of that evening. That proved to be difficult. Justin cried when I finally managed to tell him the highs and the lows. He was furious. He was sad and depressed. And he was happy, deliriously happy, as he reclaimed some of those moments through my eyes. Fuck, on our last night at the inn, he wanted to dance with me like we'd danced that night. Being the biggest fool this side of the Mississippi, I found some suitable music on the radio, and, holding him close, danced around the room with him. I should've known right then how fucked I was, but that didn't happen until we returned to Pittsburgh and the whole issue of the psychologist became clear to me.  
  
After going through all of that, I knew Justin needed more help than I could provide. When I talked to Matthew this time, though, he insisted on seeing both Justin and me in the formal setting of his office. The guy must be good at what he does because there's no way I would've agreed to that back when I first "consulted" with him. This time though, I only had to see Justin, in my mind's eye, sobbing against me, to know I could not in good conscience do nothing and pretend that was all right. So we went and Matthew told both of us— _both_ of us—we needed professional help and he'd be glad to find someone. I wanted to dispute that, of course, but arguing about PTSD after I'd blacked out on at least two occasions in front of Justin would've been the kind of crazy making mind-fuck I wasn't willing to inflict on the kid. Besides, I knew what I had. Janice, the nurse at rehab, told me and even before she did … well, I'm not totally in denial, although it seems that way at times. There'd been incidents while Justin was still in the hospital, incidents no one knew about. I'd brushed them all off because it was more important to take care of Justin. As it turned out, however, I hadn't really cared for him in the most effective ways possible. Until now.  
  
Justin works on his Pop Tart, eyeing me as he does.  
  
"What?" Feigning innocence, I pick up my coffee and take a long drink. "You want more eggs?"  
  
He shakes his head, sets the disgusting pastry aside, and pushes his hands into the well created by his yoga-style position. The suppressed look of excitement on his face gives him away, of course, but there's nothing wrong with having a little fun.  
  
"More coffee? Juice?"  
  
"Brian!"  
  
I want to kiss him again, but this is ridiculous. Okay, I agreed to see Dr. Parrack, a psychologist who specializes in trauma-related problems, a man who also happens to be gay, because otherwise Justin refused to go. What else could I do? But to say that's made some huge fuckin' difference in my own well being or my relationship with Justin—that's a stretch, a real stretch. Maybe I do feel a little, well … freer to express my emotions or something, but come on! I hate psychologists. "You want your presents?" I ask him in a teasing tone as I set my coffee back on its saucer with a little clink. "Now?"  
  
He bounces. "Yes! Please!"  
  
"You understand these are all things I picked up at the Dollar Mart?"  
  
"You're so _not_ funny."  
  
Laughing, I go upstairs and retrieve the presents from my secret storage spot under the bed. Returning to the living room, I sit back down, the gifts on my lap.  
  
"Ah!" Justin says and points to the small box tied with blue ribbon. "The key to the Jag!"  
  
"You really do think I'm your sugar daddy. Here." I hand him the larger present, which is wrapped in blue and white paper with a big, blue bow, just like the smaller version.  
  
Justin's ability to morph into a ten-year-old still amazes me. He tears into the gift, but then must remember he's just turned nineteen and should start practicing his adult skills, so he slows it down. It doesn't take long, though, to reveal the box that holds a beautiful leather journal whose hand-tooled cover is a gorgeous shade of brown. His mouth drops open as he picks it up. "A-a journal?"  
  
"Yep."  
  
He opens it and finds the pen hooked in its fabric loop. It's a gold Mont Blanc, but, fuck, I can't put a cheap Bic in a pricey journal like this, can I? He skims his hand across the surface of rich, cream-colored, hand-cut Italian paper. "God, it's so beautiful." Then he notices his name, in gold leaf, on the journal's spine, and runs the red ribbon bookmark between his fingers. "Brian … I'm stunned."  
  
"You said you needed somewhere to write down your thoughts, didn't you?"  
  
"Yes, but—"  
  
I wave at the journal. "There it is. Write away. And …" I take a deep breath because this part is the hardest. "Every week … if there's anything you write about that you want to discuss, I promise to do that … with you."  
  
He almost hits me in the head with the journal as he throws himself into my embrace. "Thank you," he whispers, shaking a little against me. "Thank you for that even more than-than this."  
  
I hold him tight and don't try to speak. Dr. Parrack suggested that Justin begin journaling so I'm just doing what the doc wants, but, well, Justin always has to be emotional about every little thing. "Okay, let's move on." I pull him back a little to see the tears in his eyes. He's been _very_ emotional since Vermont—more so than usual. The doctor says that's normal and good. You hold things in, he says, you get in trouble.   
  
I think about that.   
  
A lot.  
  
"Here, open your other present." I grab it off the table before the waterworks overwhelm us.  
  
Justin thumbs the corner of one eye and, blinking, unwraps gift number two to find a small box from one of Pittsburgh's finest jewelers. He looks up at me, trying to gauge my expression, but I give him nothing. Taking a deep breath, he opens the box.  
  
Inside, he finds a small gold tag no bigger than a dime. There are three tiny diamonds embedded in the graceful, swirling "J" that's been engraved into the gold. He picks it up with great care, like it might disintegrate. His other hand goes to his neck where the black slave's collar is firmly in place. "For-for this?"  
  
"Yep." I smile when he raises eyes filled with tears and I don't know what I was thinking. There's no getting away from the emotions, is there? Shit, I might as well go for it then. Cupping his face, I run a thumb slowly down his check. "Turn it over," I say as I release him.  
  
He complies and that's when he sees the graceful, swirling "B" that's been engraved on the other side of the tag. A sound comes out of him that might be an "Oh" that ran out of air, or maybe a sob. His hand curls around the tag and when he raises his head, the tears are streaming down.   
  
With a soft growl, I pull him into my arms, and hold him close as I rub his back. No wonder I never wanted to give gifts before—it's too fuckin' emotional.  
  
"Thank you. God, thank you so much," he whispers against my chest, the words a warm vibration there. "This is so wonderful I can't—it's hard to grasp how-how wonderful it is."  
  
I close my eyes. "Yeah, that's why they always called me Mr. Wonderful," I tell him in a voice that's lost its strength, and kiss the top of his head. "Mr. Fan-fucking-tastic-Wonderful, King of All That's Holy and Good."  
  
"Queen." He laughs and scrubs at his face with one hand. "But I don't know about that 'holy' part. Will you help me put it on? Fuck, I wish I could wear it all the time."  
  
I wait until he unhooks the collar before I show him how the tag slips onto it. "You know, now that it has the tag on it, you could wear it as a necklace rather than a collar." I slip it back into place, only I adjust it so it's looser and the tag lies in the hollow of his neck. "That way it'll go under almost anything."  
  
He touches the newly christened necklace/collar. "Now I never have to take it off."  
  
I roll my eyes, but he hits me in the arm when I do. "This is the way you say thanks?" I ask him in my most outraged voice as I rub the spot.  
  
"No!" He throws himself on me a second time and kisses me in so many places I lose count. "Thank you, thank you," he breathes in-between kisses.  
  
The knock on the door takes us both by surprise. Justin turns to look at it. "Probably more gifts arriving." He feigns a look of bored sophistication and pretends to yawn, patting his mouth. "So tiresome."   
  
With a snort, I untangle myself from him and head for the door, pulling it back in one swift movement.  
  
It's Debbie.   
  
"Deb," I say. Yeah, I'm quick that way. I feel Justin at my back and realize he's followed me.  
  
She looks at me, then Justin as he comes to stand beside me. "Can I … come in?"  
  
I step back. "Sure." Shit, if this turns out to be some fucked up thing on Debbie's part, I swear I'll—  
  
"Hi, Deb," Justin says and puts his arm around my waist.  
  
"Hi, Sunshine." Debbie comes a few feet into the loft then stops. We all stand there staring at one another as she unzips her lavender coat. She has a rectangular shaped box wrapped in gold paper with a bright red bow on it. I recognize the box. It's from Giordano's, a local candy shop near the diner. "I, uh … happy birthday." She holds out the box to Justin.  
  
"Thanks, Deb." Justin takes it, but makes no move toward her.  
  
"It's those nutty caramel ones you like." She takes a deep breath and looks grim as hell when Justin doesn't answer, but she's not dumb, and she understands that he's waiting for her to make her move. "Also, I … I've been thinking a lot about … things, the shit that's been going on between you and I." Her eyes fix themselves on mine and I brace myself. Just because she's here doesn't mean jack-shit. She could be here for any number of reasons, none of them good. "You've always been trouble, Brian, from the very beginning," she says as if she's read my mind.  
  
Justin stirs so I lay my arm across his shoulders and pull him a little closer though God only knows who's protecting whom.  
  
Debbie's lips compress as she registers the movement and a faint smile seems to twitch there momentarily. "But maybe I never let go of that perception of you and … maybe I should've. Maybe you tried to hang onto Michael too long, but maybe you … maybe given all the shit you had to put up with, as a kid, maybe you had a good goddamn reason for-for wanting Michael's love in your life. You … there's been a lot of decent things you've done, for Michael as well as others." She waves a hand at Justin. "Especially Sunshine. And it-it wasn't right, tearing you down like that in front of your brother. Not … right, and not true either." She blinks rapidly and I stir. Not more waterworks, _please_. Get me the fuck out of here! But I don't move. "So …" She takes a deep breath, holds it for a second, and then says, "I'm sorry, Brian," on an exhale.  
  
I don't know what the fuck to say so I just stand there, welded to the floor. What brought this on?  
  
"Oh, Debbie!" Justin moves to Deb and gives her a big hug. "Thank you! Thank you so much! What a great birthday present!"  
  
She smiles and then envelops him in one of her Italian mama bear hugs. "Can't believe you're nineteen. It's just … you're growing up so fast!" she says in a thick voice.  
  
Justin lets her manhandle him for an instant before disengaging himself. He turns to see what I'm going to do and it's right then that I decide being angry and pissed off will ruin the whole fucking ambience I've created for Justin. Besides, I'll never admit it, but … I've missed Deb. "I don't know what the fuck you're talking about," I say with a shrug, and step close enough to kiss her on the cheek, "but … thanks, Deb."   
  
At that point, it all disintegrates, Justin and Debbie talking over one another while I try to look disinterested, all of us sampling the chocolate when Justin opens the box, everything tense and relaxed and a little strange and awkward for all of us. Debbie doesn't stay long, though, but demands that we come to dinner next week and bring Brendan with us. Soon, she's gone and Justin and I are left to ponder the meaning of her sudden turn-around. We do just that, but soon return to what we do best when Justin strips off his clothes, slips a CD into the player, and dances before me to a rousing version of "I Want Your Sex."   
  
Of course he does.  
  
Much later, we shower again because Justin somehow ended up with donut crumbs in his pubes. Then we dress. We're meeting Jennifer, Molly, and Brendan for a celebratory dinner at the Sichuan Palace. I'm done before Mr. My-Hair-Doesn't-Look-Perfect so I go downstairs in search of a cigarette, except I smoked the last one about an hour ago. Shit. Then I remember I gave Justin a pack several days ago. Since he's not much of a smoker, I'm sure there must be some left. I open my mouth to ask him where the pack is when I spot his messenger bag, which, as per usual, he's dumped close to my desk. Flopping down on the desk chair, I pull the thing onto my lap and begin to search.  
  
Groping blindly inside the bag, that's when I find it. A shiny voice recorder so sleek and high tech I realize right away that it's not some cheap toy he found at Wal-Mart. I run a thumb down the silvery surface and study it, making a quick assessment. One hundred and fifty to two hundred dollars, easily. It's a great idea and I'm sure he must be using it for his classes, but how'd he afford something like this? Shit.  
  
"I'm almost ready!" he yells from the bathroom.  
  
I slip it into the bag and set the thing back on the floor. Fuck, I don't tell him everything I do or everything I buy. Why should he? He doesn't owe me any explanations.   
  
Not really.   
***  
Walking back to the Jeep that night, my arm's around Brian, but I think maybe I'm waddling rather than walking. I am _stuffed_. Brian said I ate so much Kung Pao Chicken it'll probably leak out my ears. Ew. But in this case, he's right. I've eaten everything that "wasn't nailed down"—that's what Mom said—and enjoyed every last bite. We had a great time at the restaurant. Brian even persuaded the waiters to sing happy birthday to me, which sounded funny coming from a group of people who speak English as a second language. Mom gave me a bunch of clothes, of course, but I like the things she picks out so it's good. Brendan gave me a graphics software program that'll work with the program I'm already using, which was a thoughtful gift because I could never afford that program on my own. Since he's working two jobs, he has more money to spend and I guess since I'm sort of his brother-in-law, he doesn't mind spending it on me. I won't mention that part to Brian.  
  
As we make our way down Bradley Street, Brendan is still with us. We just walked Mom and Molly back to their car and now we're strolling in the opposite direction. I'm enjoying the mild night, the breeze ruffling my hair as I watch the moon overhead, a bright mustard-colored disk I want to paint. Fuck, I wish this day would never end. Everything's been so wonderful; my brain can't even take it all in. The lovemaking has been … well, mind-blowing isn't even the right word. It's just a whole other thing, like we were in elementary school when we first met, but now we've graduated to a doctorate program. I can't even describe it, but it's like our non-fucking communication, open, honest, and breathtaking. I touch the tag under my sweater, pressing it into my skin. I still can't believe Brian gave it to me. Shit, he's been so different since Vermont. Okay, not all lovely-dovey, but not the old Brian either. He's turning into a better Brian than the one I fell in love with on Liberty Avenue that night. And that Brian was pretty damn special.   
  
"You are too!"  
  
"Am not!"  
  
"You are too!" Brian insists again and reaches out to goose Brendan in the ribs.  
  
Brendan yelps.  
  
I look from one to another, aware that I've missed something. "What are you two—?"  
  
"He's trying to tell me he _didn't_ look all starry-eyed when he came into the restaurant tonight," Brian says, snorting in disbelief.  
  
Brendan _was_ acting a little strange. He walked into Sichuan Palace and over to where we were sitting, stopped between Brian and I, bent down to kiss _Brian_ , and then kissed me on the cheek. "Didn't you say something like, 'Hello, boys and girls'?" I ask him with a grin. "And do a little jig before you sat down?"  
  
Brian laughs aloud. "Exactly!"  
  
"Shut up!" Brendan says and smacks Brian lightly on the arm. "You've been acting goofy for two months now, so why can't I join the fun?"   
  
"Ah ha!" Brian lets go of me and grabs Brendan by the arms, coming to a halt as he stares into his brother's eyes. He grasps his chin with one hand and squeezes, then slaps him gently on the cheek before releasing him. "God help us all! It's the ex, isn't it? The fucking ex is coming to town!"  
  
"So what if he is?" Brendan speaks in a voice that squeaks.  
  
"I should've known!" Brian turns to me, tongue going in his cheek. "Tie down everything, Sunshine. Brendan's about to get laid!"  
  
I grin as Brendan grabs Brian and they mock wrestle. It's so cool to see them behaving like, well, like _brothers_. I hate to sound so old, but I just have to say: I never thought I'd live to see the day. It's kind of cute, really. And very hot since they're both so fucking good-looking. Aren't I the lucky one? Stuck between these two.  
  
"Cut it out!" Brendan says with a laugh as he dislodges himself from Brian, and walks on ahead the few feet to the Jeep. He leans against the car and pulls a pack of cigarettes from his jacket, tapping one out.  
  
Brian joins him, snatches the cigarette out of his hand, and whips out his lighter to light it as well as the second one Brendan holds out. "So, tell us what happened," he asks in his mock sympathetic voice though he's clearly amused by his brother's behavior.  
  
Leaning against Brian, I set down the shopping bags with my gifts inside, and listen as Brendan tells the story. Yeah, it's like Brian thought. The ex is coming to Pittsburgh. I don't say anything, but I'm not sure I'm buying this guy Kelly or his lousy excuses for not calling Brendan. I mean, how hard is it to shoot off an e-mail? Who gives a fuck if he's so _deep_ into Hemingway? There's more important things than some dead writer who hated fags because he _was_ one. Still, I try to be balanced. After all, what were people saying to me about Brian? Shit, Mom is only now starting to come around. She hated his guts for a long time. Daphne had her doubts too, although she sure thought Brian was cute. So, maybe this Kelly is a good guy who realizes he made a horrible mistake when he let Brendan go. That could be true, right?  
  
"So, what time and place?" Brian asks when Brendan is finished, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'll be there. Someone's got to see if this guy is full of shit and I—"  
  
"Oh, no you don't!" Brendan throws down his cigarette and steps on it, giving his foot a decisive twist. "I don't want you anywhere near where we're meeting. I have a feeling you two wouldn't get along, at least not initially."  
  
"I'll be my sweet widdle self," Brian says in a saccharine tone and bats his eyelashes. "I just want to see what all the fuss is about."  
  
Brendan rakes a hand through his hair. "Besides, what if he wants to fuck _you_?"  
  
With studied nonchalance, Brian shrugs. "They all do."  
  
"Fuck you!" Brendan laughs and smacks Brian again. "Watch yourself, mister, or I'll shave the scruff, throw on some jeans, and start prowling the backroom at Babylon."  
  
Brian sucks in his lower lip and rolls his eyes in Brendan's direction. "Be my guest. I've had them all."  
  
"Shit!" Brendan pushes himself off the car to face us. He pulls me free of Brian so he can give me a big hug and kiss. "Happy birthday, Justin."  
  
"Thanks for everything," I say as I hug him back. "And good luck tomorrow."  
  
He smiles at me as he lets me go, and then stands there, staring at Brian. "Good night, _you_ ," he says in a soft voice.  
  
To my surprise, Brian straightens out and swoops forward, taking his brother into a hug. "Don't forget to use a condom," he says at Brendan's ear. "You better take a _box_ with you."  
  
Laughing, Brendan lets him go. "You're incorrigible!"   
  
"I try to be."  
  
We watch as Brendan goes off down the street toward his own car. "I hope Kelly is worthy of him," I murmur, propped against Brian.  
  
Brian's face has fallen into lines of what might be worry, although I'm not sure. "Yeah, me too," he says finally, and pushes his lips together. "Otherwise, I might have to kill him."  
  
I slip my arm around his waist and raise up on my toes to kiss him. "You're so wonderful. Mr. Fan-fucking-tastic-Wonderful, _Queen_ of All That's Holy and Good."  
  
He smiles down at me. "Come on, let's go home, Sunshine. It's _still_ your birthday."  
  
I pick up all my packages and stow them in the back seat before climbing into the front. As Brian starts up the car, I reach behind my neck and unhook the necklace, tightening it until it's once again a collar. "Yeah," I say as I do, and, with Brian watching, run my hand along the length of my hardening cock, "I already know what we're going to do."  
  
His eyes are in shadows, but I catch the glint of lust there. "Happy birthday, to _us_ ," he murmurs.  
  
Then we drive quickly toward home.


	28. Chapter 28

~28 ~  
  
_"And, Brendan, he's not the kind of man who'd suddenly turn around and decide he's ready for a family life. He's too self involved for that, too focused on his image, too caught up in the exciting life he lives in the swirl of New York activities. You can't be so naïve as to believe he's changed that dramatically."_  
  
As I hang the last photo, a red brick church with a gorgeous blue rose window that I shot over at the Strip District, I step back to see if it's straight.  
  
"A little to the left," Justin says behind me.  
  
"Thanks." I adjust it and step back again, eyeing it. Perfect. "Okay, only four more and I'm done."  
  
Justin has his jacket and messenger bag, and is ready to take off. "Are you sure you don't need me to stay?"  
  
"Naw. I'll be out of here in another fifteen minutes. You go on. And have a great time with Daphne." Justin is being treated to a second day of birthday fun with his friend taking him to dinner and a movie. "So, what's Brian going to be up to since you'll be out all evening?" I ask him in a casual way as I look through the framed pictures Justin matted earlier. I'm kicking myself a little about meeting Kelly at Woody's. Yeah, I did it because it's a gay bar and I knew Kelly would feel comfortable there, but, shit, what if Brian walks in? Or one of his friends? For many reasons, I don't want to be dealing with my brother or brother's friends _and_ lover at the same time.   
  
Justin shrugs. "He went to McKeesport to meet a client who owns a restaurant chain—one of those themed kind? They're having dinner at the restaurant, of course."  
  
"That sounds like _loads_ of fun."  
  
"Yeah." Justin gives me a wicked grin. "That's what I told him." He shoves his arms into his jacket. "Okay then, I'm gone."  
  
"Have fun."  
  
"Yeah, you too." Justin gives me a measured stare and looks a little wistful. "I wish I could meet Kelly. I'm dying to know what he's like."  
  
"Well, if things go well, then I'm sure you will."  
  
"Is he tall, like you?"  
  
"He's … oh, hell, here—" I reach for my backpack where I stowed it under one of the tables. Rummaging around inside, I stab my finger on a ballpoint pen before I remember the picture is in the side pocket. Unzipping it, I pull it out. "He sent this to me on Friday. It was taken in Madrid."  
  
Justin comes to stand next to me, and, forehead wrinkling, studies the photo. He sees a man around six feet tall with sandy colored hair cut a little longer than it used to be so that it could almost curl at his collar, thick, wavy hair that's always falling into his eyes. Kelly is a writer and that's what he looks like, a guy whose eyebrows, like the broad strokes of a Sharpie, frame a sensitive face dominated by beautiful blue-gray eyes, and a soft, full mouth. If you make the mistake, however, of thinking of him as a pushover, he'll disabuse you of that notion right away. Kelly's incredibly tough, and throws a mean left hook. Growing up in a poor neighborhood the way he did, he's quick to jump to his own defense, and often had to. A little bulkier than me, he's a fitness fanatic who works out almost every day, runs marathons, loves yoga, and, yeah, he's a vegan. Although he's _not_ the bodybuilder type, he has great pecs and abs, sculpted arms, strong legs. In a word, he's a looker.  
  
"Wow," Justin says finally, "he's hot as hell. He reminds me of one of those reporters in World War II, especially with that trench coat."  
  
Kelly's wearing his signature taupe colored trench coat with the tortoise shell buckle on the belt. He'd love to hear that because it's the image he cultivates. "Yeah, he bought that coat at a used clothing store. He loves vintage stuff."  
  
"All he's missing is one of those old hats with the wide brim."  
  
Laughing, I set Kelly's picture on the stack of photos to be hung. "He has a few of those too."  
  
We talk a little more, the conversation mostly about Kelly and I as Justin digs for information, but I know the subject fascinates the kid because the whole idea of relationships is dear to his heart, so I don't try to stop him. After a few more minutes, though, he leaves, and I'm left to contemplate Kelly's picture alone. Fuck, I hope this works out. Not like he and I will fall into each other's arms while the rest of the world melts away. I'm more realistic than that. Maybe, though, something can happen, a positive something, that puts the relationship back on track.   
  
He's hinted that his attitude about family has changed. I hope that's something other than a ploy to fuck me, although coming all the way from New York just to have sex with someone … well, let's just say, I don't think I'm _that_ hot. Kelly's lip used to curl when we talked about gay men with children. He was brought up by an alcoholic single mother in North Dakota so, like Brian, he didn't have much of a role model when it came to parents. Other than writing, Kelly's entire world is built around clubbing and an array of colorful friends, most of them gay. How I ended up in the middle of that mix, I'm still not sure, but when the issue of children and domesticity began to creep into our conversations, the end was near.   
  
Looking at the remaining photos I need to hang, I wonder if I can skip them and head home. I'd never tell anyone, but I'd love to change and maybe brush my teeth before I go to Woody's. I keep trying to pretend this isn't a big deal, but, fuck, it really is. When we broke up last year, I was more than upset, I was depressed, and confused, sure I'd never find someone to love. The whole thing threw me into one of those places where you question who you are and what you're doing about everything in your life. If Brian hadn't come along when he did and diverted me by giving me my other big dream, I don't know what I would've done. So, if this goes nowhere I think I'll—  
  
"Hey, here you are."  
  
I turn to watch Lindsay walk toward me, her boots clacking against the tile flooring as she does. "Hi. What're you doing here?"  
  
"Trying to find you. This place is _huge_." With a warm smile, she looks around. "This is the Sky View room? Wow, it's gorgeous."  
  
She's right. The room has a Mediterranean feel to it, not surprising given Piermarini's Italian heritage. The golden walls are done with a textured plaster treatment, the tables, and chairs are a dark rattan, the domed tops of the huge windows are decorated with an iron grille pattern, the whole place grand and glorious while still somehow intimate and inviting. "I keep forgetting you've never been here before," I say as I finish my own sweep of the room.  
  
"And I wouldn't be here today except you left your Palm at my house this morning." She pulls the PDA out of her handbag and offers it to me.  
  
"Shit, I didn't even miss it—that's how busy I've been since I got here." I take it from her, "Thanks," and set it on one of the tables.  
  
She looks around again, craning her head to stare at the vaulted ceiling, then walks toward the windows. "God, the view up here is breathtaking."  
  
It looks like I'm not going to get a chance to go home before I have to head to Woody's, but what can I do about it? She came all the way over here to bring the Palm back to me so I can't behave like a jerk, can I? I always wish I were Brian in moments like this because he can dismiss anyone in a heartbeat and no one ever gets offended … or at least they don't tell him they're offended.   
  
Lindsay walks back to where I'm standing. "I just saw Justin leaving. And Mr. Piermarini."  
  
"Yeah?" I thought Marco left a while ago, but maybe he was working in his downstairs office.   
  
"Funny but …" She unbuttons her coat like she's going to stay awhile. Shit. "It looked to me for all the world like Marco was checking out Justin as he went across the parking lot to Daphne's car, and I mean really checking him out."  
  
I've known for a while that Marco was either gay or bi-sexual, but it's not something I've discussed with _anyone_ —you better believe I'd keep my mouth shut. It's none of my business and, besides, the man has two kids and an exceptionally pretty wife. "Justin has that light about him that attracts all kinds of people," I tell her in a disinterested voice.  
  
"Yet …" She crosses her arms over her chest and rocks on her heels. "I always find it surprising the number of people—especially men—who'd hide their sexuality like that. I mean, why are they ashamed of something so natural?"   
  
Lindsay's voice has a sweet innocence to it that used to fool me, but I've known her now too long to fall for that garbage. "Oh, come on, Lindsay. You know the answer to that. Look at the prejudice and hatred people have to face."  
  
"I guess." She comes closer and, before I realize what's happening, she has Kelly's photo in her hand. "Who's this?"  
  
Fuck. Why didn't I put that away? "A friend."  
  
"The one who's coming to see you today?"  
  
She has a way of getting information out of me, which is what she did this morning about Kelly. Batting eyelashes and tossing that blonde hair always seems to do the trick, but, fuck, how'd she know that was him? I never told her Kelly was a man. "Yeah. I'm … uh, going to need to leave soon."  
  
"To meet him?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"He's … very good looking." She stands there, photo in her hand, scrutinizing it with an intensity that makes no sense. "You know what, Brendan?" she says finally in a slow voice, one you'd use when you'd just come to some sort of decision. "I need to tell you something. Actually … two somethings."  
  
Just fucking great. Now she wants to confess that she overheard Brian and me talking at the gallery, right? That has to be number one and it's certainly overdue. I've been waiting a long time for her to cough up that information, but, shit, not right now. "Like I said, Lindsay, I need to leave soon, so maybe we could—"  
  
"It won't take long." She sets the photo down and, to my dismay, takes off her coat. She's wearing a deep lavender sweater underneath that's probably cashmere, one that clings to her figure in a flattering way, her rounded breasts perky under the knit. In fact, I think I complimented her on that particular sweater. Her dark slacks and low-heeled shoes give her the look of a polished, attractive suburban mom. She steps closer so that the scent of her musky perfume wafts over me, and raises her head to stare into my eyes. "I … Brendan, I know you're bi-sexual."  
  
"I know."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I know you know."  
  
She has the decency to blush. "You knew I was there listening?"  
  
"I saw your feet." I manage a smile. "You probably ought to forget that career as an international spy."  
  
"I'm sorry." She looks down at the floor, eyelashes fluttering. "That was wrong."  
  
"That's okay. It's not a huge secret just, uh, well, something I'm still working on."  
  
"I realize that." She continues to study the floor. "I-uh, heard what Brian said to you about letting the gay side of you prevail and just … well, forget your dream of a wife and kids."  
  
Shit, she heard the entire conversation. What is it with her, anyway? "I'm sure that's not a surprise to you, is it? That he has such an opinion?"  
  
"No, it's not, but I just … I think he's wrong, very wrong."  
  
"Well, thanks, Lindsay. I appreciate that, but like I said, I have to meet Kelly at four and—"  
  
She takes a step closer and stops me with a hand to the chest. "No, please, let me tell you the other thing. I—uh, when I saw you'd left your Palm on the coffee table this morning, I … well, I looked through your personal contacts and found Kelly's last name: McKinnon, Kelly McKinnon." Her blue eyes are filled with an emotion I don't think I want to name. "I-I—I know you're going to hate me, Brendan, but I googled him along with your name and I found a blog." She pushes her lips into a thin, tight line. "You were lovers. He called you his boyfriend, the love of his life, all kinds of … stuff like that."  
  
I can't believe she's done such a disturbing thing. What in God's name possessed her? "He used my last name?" I ask, a little aghast at the idea of being outed on his blog, which gets decent hits thanks to the column he writes. It's been awhile since I've read it but I don't remember him—  
  
"No, no. Just his last name because he—I guess he uses the blog to promote his books so he has to be professional, but he was telling stories about his life in New York and how much he missed 'Brendan.' How many 'Brendans' would he know whom he claimed to love and cherish? _Cherish_?" Her lips pursue. "If he cherishes you so much, how come he can't do a simple thing like promise you a family?"  
  
I open my mouth to respond, but she's quicker.  
  
"Brendan, you have to listen to me. This is important." Her forehead furrows as her face falls into grave lines. "Brian is _wrong_ , very wrong in that advice he gave you. If you're attracted to women—and I know you are—and you want a family, it's insane for you to pursue a relationship with a gay man who has no interest in such a thing."  
  
"He said he'd changed—"  
  
"I don't believe that!" Palm down, she cuts the air with her right hand, and I see the passion in the gesture. Shit, she's dead serious. "I read his blog. I read reviews of his novels. I read other blogs of gay men in New York City who know him. And, Brendan, he's _not_ the kind of man who'd suddenly turn around and decide he's ready for a family life. He's too self involved for that, too focused on his image, too caught up in the exciting life he lives in the swirl of New York activities. You can't be so naïve as to believe he's changed that dramatically." She grasps my upper arms and runs her hands down to grasp mine as she gives them a hard squeeze. "I can understand him coming after you, Brendan—of course I can! You're so beautiful and desirable he probably felt like a fool because he let you slip away. I bet his friends told him that too, that you _should_ be his. Let's face it, you'd make a perfect little wife for someone like him, wouldn't you? You're so much the yin to his yang."  
  
"Fuck!" I pull away from her and back up, unable to believe the melodrama she's spewing. Is this some made-for-TV movie and is that the swell of weepy violin music I hear in the background? She's been searching the web for information on _Kelly_? Reading up on him? Coming to me with the flimsy excuse of the PDA when all she wants is a chance to promote her own agenda? And, shit, she _does_ have an agenda! I've been lulled into a fucking sense of complacency these last few months and didn't even realize it. "What the hell are you talking about, Lindsay? You must read too many romance novels. Little wife? That's not the kind of relationship I had with Kelly."  
  
"So, he wasn't the top to your bottom?"  
  
"That's none of your fucking' business!"  
  
She follows me when I back up more. "It _is_ my business, Brendan. You have no idea how much of my business it is." She reaches out in entreaty. "Listen to me, please."  
  
I pull back enough to evade her touch. "Uh, I need to leave. We'll have this discussion some other time."  
  
"No, let's have it now while I have the courage to say what needs to be said."   
  
We've backed up until I'm against one of the walls and, fuck me, I feel like the heroine in one of those stupid romance novels. All I need is a handkerchief to flutter because haven't I been trapped by the hero of this story, the blonde beauty who wants to make me her own no matter what I try to do or say? Laughter bubbles up in me, but I clamp my lips together and don't give into it because I might not be able to stop once I start.  
  
"Brendan, you and I are perfect for each other—"  
  
"Lindsay! I barely know you!" Has my voice just gone up an octave? Is this fucking happening?  
  
"Listen to me!" She twists one hand in the other. "Ever since I've known Brian, all these years I've been around him, I've always wondered why I had this-this desire for him when during most of that time, I knew he was gay and unattainable."  
  
"What does this have to do with me?"  
  
"Plenty. Would you listen?" She picks at her cuticle, her voice dropping. "I always thought Brian and I should marry even though I knew that was crazy, knew that would never happen." She raises her head. "Until I saw _you_ at Thanksgiving. Then suddenly it all made sense to me."  
  
" _What_ made sense?"  
  
"That I'd been waiting for you to come along, the straight version of Brian, the one who'd be perfect for me. I know this sounds really corny and strange, Brendan, but I think it's … well, it's our destiny."  
  
Maybe she's off some medication I didn't know she was on? "Uh, huh," is all I can manage because I'm so dumbfounded. So now we're star-crossed lovers?  
  
"We've worked together fantastically these last two months, which just proves my point." She's standing in front of me, at arm's length, and reaches out now to touch my hand soothingly like she fears I'll bolt. "In fact, I'd say we've been an ideal fit, two people in a relationship that could continue to grow and prosper in the right environment."  
  
"The right environment? Like boyfriend and girlfriend?"  
  
"No," she says calmly like she's thought it all through, "like husband and wife."  
  
Oh, my God! "I'm not marrying you, Lindsay! That's absurd. You're the mother of Brian's son. Have you given any thought to what such a thing would do to _him_?"  
  
She flips back her head, blonde hair flying. "He'll be fine with it. In fact, after some initial drama, he'll realize that he's a lot better off with you as Gus's father than Melanie. He hates Mel's guts."  
  
"And he's going to hate mine too if you persist with this insanity. Lindsay, I think you're a fine person, but I don't feel about you the way I feel about the people in my life who've been—"  
  
Too fast to register the move, she closes the distance between us and clamps her mouth over mine, her lips firm, her tongue looking for an entry I don't provide. Her body presses against me and she twists a little so that I feel her firm breasts as her warm hands slip under my sweater. She pushes upward and her palms gaze my nipples briefly before she reverses direction and heads down. All in the blink of an eye, her seeking hand comes to rest on my denim-covered cock, her fingers closing around it like she does this all the time. Without so much as a split second's hesitation, she's massaging me for all she's worth.  
  
During the mere seconds these actions take, I stand there, stunned, an immediate huge disconnect between my brain and my body. I don't move. I don't react … at least, not by trying to stop her. I can't believe she's gone from zero to sixty on _me_ —those are my immediate thoughts, the thing going on in my head. The unhappy truth, though, is that my body has no such qualms, and must believe the long drought is finally over because my _physical_ reaction is almost instantaneous. My eyes close at the kiss. My breathing accelerates. And, yes, I'm hard. I'm responding to her touch. I'm giving every indication I'm not only enjoying myself, but begging for more.  
  
Lindsay groans into my mouth, her hand tightening, her bent leg inching up mine as she pushes herself against me, grinding.   
  
I know I have to do something.  
  
_Immediately_.  
  
"What the fuck is _this_?"  
  
I wrench my mouth from Lindsay's, my eyes wide.   
  
It's Kelly.  
  
He's standing about six feet from us, hands balled into fists, eyes like blue-gray fire. The trench coat covers a black turtleneck sweater and jeans, and he looks … my God, he looks wonderful.  
  
"What-what are you doing here?" I manage as I push Lindsay off.  
  
Kelly's gaze is on my crotch and there's no doubt he sees the rapidly diminishing boner. "Not much, apparently." His gaze dwells on Lindsay, then he brings his eyes back to mine. "You could've at least had the fuckin' decency to tell me you were involved with someone. I thought I made my position clear when we talked. If you're with a _woman_ , I need to know that. Is that too much to ask?"  
  
Kelly isn't fond of women. Not even lesbians. I'm not sure why, but it probably has something to do with his mother. The thing is, any time I've so much as smiled at a female clerk in the grocery store, he's gone bat-shit crazy. "I'm not involved with a woman, you—"  
  
"Oh, really?" Kelly gestures at Lindsay, the disdain on his handsome face all-too-apparent. "What the hell was she doing, measuring you for a new pair of trousers?"  
  
"I made him an offer I hoped he couldn't refuse," Lindsay says with a dangerous light in her eyes, the color in her cheeks not the blush of someone who's ashamed, but the visible sign of someone ready to fight. "You must be Kelly." She squares her shoulders. "I'm Lindsay, and I don't think you have a claim on Brendan, not at all."  
  
"And who the fuck are _you_ to tell me that?" he asks her in his coldest voice.  
  
"I'm his friend, someone who's stood by him while you were running around Europe playing the great writer, someone who accepts him for who he is, who wants to help him succeed rather than spending time tearing him down the way you do."  
  
My head is ready to explode. What the fuck? "Lindsay, would you cut it out? I'm not going to stand here and listen to you—"  
  
She whirls around to face me. "Why not? Don't I get to stake my claim? This guy has been nothing but a source of pain for you ever since you arrived in Pittsburgh. What the hell can he provide for you that I can't?"  
  
"This is fuckin' nuts! When did you go delusional? You don't have a _claim_ on me and this is none of your business! Have you conveniently forgotten that you have a partner and—"  
  
"A _partner_ ," she says in a scorn-filled voice. "Right! A partner who turned down my marriage proposal, who thinks marriage is nothing but a heterosexual institution we ought to ignore, who doesn't see what that attitude says about her supposed love for me!"  
  
"It looks to me like it's very much her business," Kelly says just then, tight-lipped. "Given the way she was practically fucking you on your feet, Bren, I'm sure it isn't the first time the two of you have gone at it."  
  
"That isn't true!"  
  
"Fuck!" He tosses his head, his gorgeous locks in immediate disarray. "Why the hell can't you at least be honest? You're bi, but you know what they say about bi-sexuals. They're afraid of commitment. Look at you! You're a perfect example, going back and forth, back and forth between men and women—you could be their poster boy. Like last year, when you did that one-night stand with … what was her name? Corrine Cressman? Oh, yeah, right, it was just a drunken fuck, nothing more! Isn't that what you told me after you confessed the whole thing? Well, I'm sick of that, Bren, sick of you and your duplicity, your inability to decide who the fuck you are and settle down for a nice long stay!"  
  
My breathing accelerates and I can feel the heat in my face. "You and I weren't in an exclusive relationship when that happened. Besides, I never claimed to be anyone other than who I am!"  
  
"Yeah, a fucked up mess who can't keep his dick out of pussy five minutes before his ex-boyfriend is due!"  
  
"For starters, you weren't supposed to be here."   
  
"I thought I'd surprise you!" Kelly throws out a hand. "Surprise, surprise! I'm the one who got bitch slapped! And here I thought we'd have such a great reunion!"  
  
"Oh, poor you," Lindsay says, the sneer evident in her voice.  
  
"Would you shut the fuck up?" I am almost shouting as I watch my wonderful Sunday shatter into a million pieces. This whole fuckin' thing is _unreal_. "What is up with you?" I ask her. "This is insane. Could you please just leave and let me talk to Kelly so I can—"  
  
"Talk to me about _what_ , Bren?" Kelly's voice is rough, almost abusive. "Your lady friend? You could've fucking done that over the phone."  
  
"I don't' have a 'lady friend,' you idiot!"  
  
"Don't call me an idiot!"  
  
"You're behaving like one, what do you want me to call you? You walk in here and immediately start throwing out threats just because I—"  
  
"—because you're getting a hand job by a fucking bitch who looks like she's ready to spread'em for you?"  
  
In a blinding flash, Lindsay takes two steps forward and slaps Kelly so hard the sound echoes throughout the huge room. He staggers, surprise replaced by anger as he stops his backward motion. "You fucked up cunt!" he growls as he steps forward, hand raised.  
  
"No!" I am between them just as fast, grabbing his hand before it can come down. "That's not happening, Kel!"  
  
"Oh, you and your fuckin' chivalry! Fuck you!"  
  
"Fuck you too!"  
  
Breathing hard, his pupils look dilated as he stares at me. "We're done here, Bren."  
  
"Are we? Well, I guess that tells me more than I need to know about you, doesn't it?"  
  
He glares at me, his eyes burning into mine. "Ditto," he says in a whisper so harsh it sounds more like a hiss.  
  
Then he turns and walks out of the room.


	29. Chapter 29

~ 29 ~  
  
_Does he know enough about me to make such a judgment? No, not unless he can read my mind. Because the truth is, I haven't been afraid since I was nine years old._   
When Rod Lykken, proud owner of the Happy-Go-Lucky Family Restaurant chain, had a sudden emergency at home involving a broken pipe flooding his breeder basement, I had to allow for the possibility that maybe God exists, and had just spoken to me loud and clear. How else can you explain the reprieve I was granted mere minutes after we arrived at his disgusting restaurant? I know my meeting was in McKeesport, but how the fuck would I have explained it if someone I knew saw me there? Me, Brian Kinney, eating dinner in a restaurant where the dominant theme is dreck—garish, cheap, synthesized dreck? Fuck, I know I'm a genius where advertising is concerned, but even I'll be hard pressed to come up with something appealing about a restaurant decorated in bright orange and lime green with a fucking _clown_ motif. Of course, the place was packed when we arrived, but I never said breeders were smart, did I? Obviously, they're not—most of them, at least. I might make an exception for Debbie, and Justin's friend, Daphne.  
  
As I head down Liberty toward Woody's, that's next on my list of today's irritations. Daphne's taken Justin away for the night, which means I'm on my own a lot earlier than I'd planned. I grit my teeth, but, well, fuck, maybe that's a good thing. After all, I pretty much handed myself over to the kid yesterday, body and soul, and today it's grating on my nerves a little. Yeah, sure, I wanted him to have a good birthday, and he did. But today, although I won't tell anyone, I'm concerned and, yeah, maybe a little pissed off that I let Dr. Parrack influence me so much. That has to be what happened, right? Because everything that went on yesterday was way out of character for me. I don't do birthdays for anyone except Gus. Why the hell should people get presents every year on the day they were born? That makes no sense. Celebrating someone's achievements, sure, I can understand that, but just piling on the gifts because they're a year older? That's not much of an accomplishment and, besides, it's bullshit.  
  
Yet, that's what I did with Justin: behaved like a fool.  
  
Inside Woody's, a quick look around confirms that no one I know, or even want to know is there. Propped against the bar, I greet Jake, the bartender, and we chat for a moment, although he's not a possibility since I've already done him. I order Jameson's, a double, and knock it back as Jake moves onto another customer. Taking a seat at the bar, I finger the smooth rim of my glass as I contemplate my next move. Babylon seems like an obvious choice, but it's way too early for that because it's not even five. Shit. I suppose I could go home, but why the hell should I? It's Sunday, my day off, and I ought to be having fun. I deserve that and no fuckin' birthday weekend filled with gifts and food and all kinds of lesbionic expression is going to change that. The Birthday Boy was feted, he's done, and now it ought to be about me, it should be my night out on the town, my evening of excitement. And there's no fuckin' reason I'd feel guilty about that, either.   
  
Dr. Parrack says every time I perceive myself getting close to Justin, I have a "moment of panic," and, in the aftermath, pull away from him. He says that's because I'm afraid-frightened-scared-anxious-whatever-the-fuck you want to call it. Like, after two fuckin' months, Parrack's accomplished the impossible and become an expert in _me_.  
  
I want Justin to get better so I've pretty much kept my thoughts to myself when he spouts that stuff, but, frankly, the doc is full of shit. Me, afraid? Does he know enough about me to make such a judgment? No, not unless he can read my mind. Because the truth is, I haven't been afraid since I was nine years old.  
  
Yeah, I was afraid that one particular night my old man came home, loaded again, and knocked me back on my ass because I left my bike in the driveway. I was afraid when he hauled me onto my feet a second later and smacked me across the face so hard I tore my lip. I remember with vivid clarity how the blood ran into my mouth, how it tasted metallic, how it made me almost choke. And I was most definitely afraid when he threw me against the wall and almost broke my arm. I don't deny that. I never will. In fact, what went on that night was so bad I thought I'd die, but if I should somehow survive, I knew I never wanted to feel that kind of pain again. Or anything even remotely similar to it.  
  
So, I never did  
  
By the time I was ten, even though Jack still did things like that, even though Jack used words to demean and belittle me … by the time I was ten, I was no longer afraid. I knew by then how to go somewhere in my head when that shit happened, not the "happy place" some idiots talk about in their psycho-babble way, but a place where it didn't hurt. Yeah, it was a disassociative state—I know the language—and it helped me get through those times because I'd checked out, mentally, and wasn't registering the pain and violence around me. Not really. In other words, even that young I _handled_ it, I learned how to deal. So, despite what Dr. P. might think, I stopped being afraid a long, long time ago.   
  
Of course, Parrack disputes that. Am I surprised? He has to make a living and loves digging around inside people's heads, looking for scary secrets he can expose to the light of day. He's big on that: expose it, scrutinize it, and then move on. It might as well be his mantra. But the idea that I have some kind of panic attack every time I'm nice to Justin? That's nuts. Why would I panic? Because Justin will … what? Order new china in a color other than black? Fluff up the bedroom with colorful pillows and nice silk flowers? Buy us matching shirts to wear to our gay couples bridge night? Yeah, that's cause for panic all right.  
  
Parrack is doing a great job with Justin. I see that. He has a lot of shit to sort through and the doc is excellent with that stuff, bringing Justin step-by-step through the events of the last year. He just needs to leave me the fuck alone, or at least tread a little lighter. Which is why I won't tell him anything about the recorder I found yesterday. Because I know, because I'd stake my fuckin' life on it, that the recorder in Justin's bag came from the asshole himself … from Craig Taylor. And, well, I don't get that at all.  
  
I order another double and, head bent, contemplate the fact that Justin is lying to me. Is that a big deal? Should I be upset or outraged that he's keeping something like that from me? Fuck, despite the slave collar and the games we like to play, the kid _does not_ belong to me in any sense of the word. Okay, I pay the bills and maybe I even make a few of the rules. But who you see and what you do with your free time? That's not a rule either one of us adheres to. Our rules involve _tricks_ , not relatives. If Justin wants to spend his fuckin' time with the jerk who rammed his car into mine and, later on, kicked the shit out of me, so what? Why should I care?  
  
But I do. I care a lot. Okay, the asshole is his father and somewhere off in LaLa Land there's a rule about fathers and mothers being different, special, people you can't get away from no matter how hard you try. Bullshit. I got away from my father, didn't I? And look at the shit he did to me. Shouldn't _I_ be longing for that so-called lost love? Shouldn't I despair now because the son of a bitch is dead? So, here's Justin with a living father who attacked me, twice. True, I lived, but fuck, no thanks to him. A living father who tossed Justin out on his ass and would've withheld all financial support just when Justin needed it the most if Jennifer hadn't fought back and demanded otherwise. And how is Justin reacting to that? He's trying to develop a _relationship_ with the motherfucker. A fuckin' relationship. And he's doing it behind my back.  
  
Raising my eyes, I look into the mirror behind the bar, and for a confused second see a stranger with haunted eyes. It's me, but before I can take in the meaning of that disconnect, my attention is drawn to a _real_ stranger whose gaze rests on me. I stare back and recognize the eye fucking for what it is. Well, things have just started to look up. Straightening out, I do a more detailed assessment. Tall, blond, great upper body definition, although I wish he'd lose the trench coat so I can check out the entire package. Except for Justin, I've never been keen on blonds, but this one has an air about him I like: direct, sure of himself, ready for action. I can get into that right now. It'd be a nice distraction, which is exactly what I need. Picking up my glass, I finish off the Jameson's, my gaze still resting on him as the buzz from the two double shots begins to kick in.  
  
He crosses the room until he's standing next to me. "Buy you another one?" he says, gazing directly into my eyes. He has a deep voice with an almost musical quality to it.   
  
I shrug.   
  
He smiles, showing even, white teeth as he shakes back his mane of hair. Signaling the bartender, he points to my glass. "I'll have the same."  
  
I check him out again. Whoever he is, he's fuckin' good looking. I can't take him back to the loft, but I'm thinking a quick, hard fuck in the bathroom sounds like the cure for what ails me. First, though, another drink as I settle in to let this play itself out. We lock eyes again and this time he's the one getting eye fucked. Deliberately, I let my gaze sweep the length of him. "You hiding something you don't want me seeing?"   
  
He looks down at himself, then, holding my gaze, slips off the trench coat. "Let me know if you'd like to see more."  
  
I take the fresh drink. "I'm sure I will. Where you from?"  
  
"Bismarck, North Dakota. I just got into town. I work for Silicro over on Western."  
  
Silicro is a huge design firm we've used for projects we can't do in-house. Marty would love to get his foot in that door, so I'll need to get his card … later. Right now, though, I'm more concerned with my dick and this guy's ass. "An artist, huh?" I think of Justin as soon as the words leave my mouth. Fuck, that's not where I want to go, not now.  
  
"No." He smiles and there's no doubt he's into this scene because he leans a little closer. "Project manager," he whispers, and I can smell the whiskey on his breath. "I do all my creative work after-hours."  
  
My tongue goes into my cheek for a second. "Are you a creative _top_ or a creative _bottom_?"  
  
He touches my hand, fingertips grazing as he traces a little design there. "Whatever suits your fancy. I'm trying to get acquainted with the locals so … I'm easy." He smiles right into my eyes and the invitation couldn't be clearer.   
  
Knocking back the rest of my drink, I slip off the stool, nodding toward the men's room door.  
  
He stands, making eye contact with Jake. "Would you keep an eye on this?" he asks, indicating his coat where it lays on the stool.  
  
Jake nods.  
  
Without another word, we head for the bathroom.  
  
***  
Kinney's good at what he does. Very good. After he slams me against the stall's metal wall, he unhooks my belt, slides my pants down, and pushes his way inside so quickly even _I'm_ surprised. Fuck, he's taken control so rapidly he's overwhelmed me—not an easy thing to do, let me tell you. For almost a minute, I can't breathe thanks to the pain, I struggle to adjust to his massive intrusion, and my head's spinning. Fuck, it's unreal since I'm usually the one doing that shit to my trick-of-the-moment. Brendan's big brother is nothing like Bren ... nothing at all.   
  
After that, it's all thrust, and push back. My skills are a little rusty so that's another thing I have to fine-tune, but I do, I'm versatile and motivated. Once he wraps his hand around my dick, though, everything goes unhinged and incoherent. Then we're nothing except two animals rutting like nothing else matters in the whole fuckin' world. I forget about Bren, forget about my good fortune in finding his brother here, forget it all until I feel my balls contract, feel myself arch then shoot with a loud and protracted groan. A minute later, Kinney does the same thing, although he doesn't make a sound, collapsing against me, sweaty and trying to slow down his breathing.  
  
I could not have scripted it better because just then I hear Brendan. He's outside, in the bar, and he's yelling. Brendan has a hysterical edge to his personality, one I've seen in action, one I knew I'd set off. Obviously, he found my coat like I knew he would. Then he probably talked to the bartender and heard the entire sordid little tale. God, sometimes I surpass myself. Did he think he could get away with fucking that bitch after he'd dropped all those breathless hints over the phone about getting back together? I made _plans_. I even went in Macy's to look at double beds because we'd need one. I was ready to rearrange my apartment. And all the time he's fucking a _woman_? Am I a fool to be put down by the likes of him? Fuck, no.   
  
The men's room door crashes open and I hear two voices: Brendan's and … the bartender?  
  
"Where is he? Kelly!" Brendan calls, and a stall door is banged back with a metallic reverberation that resonates in the small space.  
  
"Would you just relax?" The bartender's voice is rapid, breathy. "You can't just come in here and—"  
  
"Hey!" an angry male voice says just then, "get the fuck out!"  
  
During this racket, I hear Kinney saying, "What the fuck?" in the clueless voice of someone who's been had, but doesn't know it. He pulls out of me and I hear a plop when the condom hits the commode. Then he's zipping up his jeans.  
  
"Kelly!" Brendan bellows again and another door is slammed back.  
  
"That's my ... brother." Kinney sounds confused and dismayed, and well he should be. "What the fuck is he doing here?"  
  
I turn around long enough to grin at his bewildered expression. "You're about to find out." Reaching over, I twist the lock that keeps the stall private. My pants are still down a second later when Brendan thrusts open the door.   
  
Horror-struck, he stares at me, his eyes wide. His gaze shifts to Kinney then back to me, my messed up clothes, and, I hope, the look of blissful satisfaction on my face. He glances at his brother again, and his expression is priceless--I'd laugh except it'd break the mood. "You fucked Kelly?" he shouts, a mixture of rage and grief fanning out across his features like tendrils of fire ready to mark his face. With the sound of a wounded animal, he lunges at Kinney, knocking him back against the wall.  
  
"Hey, come on!" I grab his arm so he can't punch his brother, giving him my best shit-eating grin. "Fair is fair, Bren! You fuck the blonde, I let him fuck me!"  
  
"Blond?" Kinney straightens out, looking stunned, his face ravaged, and drained of color. His eyes, however, come alive with a white-hot intensity at the mention of the blonde chick. "What blond?" he asks his brother.  
  
Bren ignores him. "You fucked up, perverted son of bitch!" he says to me, and turns walking a distance into the bathroom. Then he walks back. His shoulders rise and fall with his heavy breathing, the color in his cheeks is an angry, shocked red. "And I know exactly why you did it too."  
  
Hitching up my pants, I follow him out of the stall, Kinney right behind me. "Let someone top me?" I bite my lower lip and smile. "Sure, why not? Isn't it always what _you_ wanted to do?"  
  
Kinney pushes his way past me, and gets right up in his brother's face. "What the fuck is he talking about?" There's a rough shake in his voice as he begins to comprehend what's happening. "What _blond_ did you fuck?"  
  
"The chick he was going at it with when I got to the restaurant," I say as I buckle my belt. "Long blonde hair, big tits, kind of pretty if you're into that sort of thing."   
  
Kinney's gaze locks on Brendan's and he radiates anger, revulsion, and astonishment. His mouth trembles just a bit. "Lindsay?" he whispers, though I can barely hear the word. "You fucked Lindsay?"  
  
"I wasn't fucking her!" Brendan twists from side to side, and looks like he's ready to jump out of his skin. "But I don't give a fuck what you think! _You_ were fucking Kelly, my ex—you were fucking my ex!" Brendan rakes a hand through his hair, then both hands become fists, which he thrusts downward as he talks. "You knew he was going to be in town today! Didn't it occur to you that the handsome stranger putting the moves on you might be Kelly? No, of course not! You were too busy getting your rocks off to think about anyone other than yourself!" He covers his face with both hands, swaying. "God, this is so fucked up!"  
  
Kinney stares, his mouth slightly open, his face slack.  
  
"Next time you think you might want to dip into the hetero side of your bi-sexuality," I tell him with a little chuckle, "just keep this in mind, okay?"  
  
"I did not fuck her!"   
  
"Oh, she just had her hand on your dick because she thought it was cold?"  
  
"Why have you totally fucked up everything?" Bren waves a hand to include Kinney. "Both of you, you've fucked it all up and why? Because you're more concerned about yourself than anyone else! You're both nothing but a couple of selfish, narcissistic assholes!"  
  
"You're one to talk! You gave me every reason to believe you were interested in getting back together then I catch you with that woman plastered all over you, giving you a hand-job."  
  
"Fuck off, Kelly! You're obviously not the person I thought you were. Just fuck off!" Brendan starts to walk out, then stops to glare at his brother. I wait to see what he'll say, but, his chest heaving, he gives his head a disgusted shake. Then he walks out of the bathroom.  
  
I go to the sink and wash my hands. Watching him in the mirror, I see Kinney's not moving, a suddenly immobilized stud who's taken one to the head. I dry my hands, straighten my clothing, check my hair, and turn to give him my best smile. "Well, that was hot. We'll have to do it again sometime. Oh, wait, that's right. I live in New York." I shrug. "Sorry about that." I turn, heading for the door.  
  
I hear the footsteps and feel the firm hand on my shoulder too late. Kinney twirls me around. "Yeah, that's right," he says, the growl in his voice my only warning.. "I won't have another chance to do this, will I?" In a heartbeat, he draws back his arm, his fist connecting with my nose a second later.  
  
That's when I hit the floor.  
  
Hard.  
***  
It's almost 4:00 a.m. when my taxi pulls up in front of Woody's. Sleepy but anxious as hell, I pay the guy and jump out, walking to where Jake, one of the bartenders at Woody's, is waiting. "Hey, Justin," he says as I stop in front of him.  
  
"Hi." It's still hard to believe the story he told when he called about twenty-five minutes ago. Brendan with _Lindsay_? Brian fucking Brendan's ex-lover? Brendan finding them in the bathroom and freaking out? I had one hell of a time getting my head around any of that information, but then he tells me about Brian …   
  
"Where's the car?" I ask Jake as the frigid wind cuts through me. He points, indicating the alley just behind where he's standing. "Okay, thanks. Listen, I asked the cabbie to wait." I jerk a thumb back to the taxi idling nearby. Jake's been standing out here in the cold waiting for me to arrive, and I know he doesn't have any way to get home except the bus. Shit, calling me in the first place was the right thing to do; now it's my turn. "Here." I hand him a twenty, thank him again, and walk into the alleyway.  
  
The Jeep sits in darkness. No exhaust fumes, no lights on, nothing to indicate it's running. I can't see anything inside and wonder what made Jake go closer, to investigate, although I'm fuckin' glad he did. Taking a deep breath, I walk the few paces to the passenger's side and open the door, scooting inside.  
  
Brian is behind the wheel, his hands in his lap. He doesn't move when I slam the door. He doesn't do anything except continue to stare out the windshield. From what I can see of his face, he looks bewildered, all of the hard lines that usually define his features smoothed out, his eyes wide, unseeing. His breathing is shallow and even, but other than that, he's unnaturally still.  
  
"Brian?" Fuck, it's freezing in here. I touch his arm with a gentle hand, "Brian?" but he doesn't respond.  
  
When Jake called to tell me he'd found Brian sitting in his Jeep, staring at nothing, unresponsive to anything he said, I assumed he'd been drinking. Even before he told me the part about Brendan, Lindsay, and Kelly, that was my natural assumption. Drinking or smoking weed or doing E—maybe all three. But Jake said no, he didn't detect the smell of alcohol or the scent of marijuana. Brian punched Kelly and then walked out of the place. That's the last Jake saw of him until after 3:00 a.m. when he was taking out the trash. The thought that he'd been sitting there, dead sober, and chilled to the bone all the hours since then was worse than anything I could imagine. I dialed the cab company the instant we hung up.  
  
"Brian, where are your keys?" Fingers on his chin, I turn his head to make eye contact, but when I succeed, there's nothing in his gaze that says he recognizes me. "Your car keys?"   
  
He stares for another moment, then turns back to gaze at whatever it is he sees out there. _Oh, God_. I slip my hand inside his jacket, but find nothing so I pat down his jeans and feel the lumpiness in his left pocket. Somehow, I manage to wrestle them out and start up the Jeep, waiting impatiently until the car warms up before I turn on the heater. I hold one of Brian's cold hands, chafing it between mine, my own thoughts whirling as I try to figure out what's happened to him.   
  
Has he ever been like this before? Okay, whenever he has a flashback episode, he's a little this way, right? He kind of phases out of his current reality. The first flashback I saw, at Claire's that day she was having the garage sale, he did exactly that after seeing the rosary—he became like _this_ , blank, unfocused. And when he had the flashback in Vermont, it was the same way. Apparently, I become emotional when I have one, but Brian doesn't. Brian gets quiet. Brian becomes a zombie.   
  
Plus, I know of at least one other incident when he behaved this way. I shiver at that thought because it was after the bashing. I didn't see it, of course, but Michael told me Brian sat in the hospital corridor and looked like a fuckin' smashed up statue, totally quiet, the tears running down his face, glassy-eyed, and scary to everyone who saw him. I try to never think about that because it makes me feel sick. I know I was the one with the fuckin' cracked head, but still …  
  
So, is that what's happened here? He's had a flashback episode? Fuck, maybe after he punched that lying sack of shit, Kelly, the son of a bitch started to bleed, and Brian reacted to the blood like he always does. Although, if that were the case, he didn't react until he'd gone outside to the car, but, okay, that's still a possibility. The flashbacks, though, usually last a short time, ten or fifteen minutes at the most. That would mean he'd been in a flashback episode for hours, right? Fuck. The more I think about this, the more it's scaring me.  
  
Drawing a ragged breath, I turn back to Brian. "Listen …" I speak softly, but distinctly. "I don't exactly know what happened or why you … why you're still here. I came to help you, okay? But you've got to-to help me, and you can start by talking to me." My voice drops to a whisper. "Please, Brian? I know you're not catatonic, but this is … it's freaking me out a little." I slip an arm around his neck, moving as close to him as I can given the limitations of the car. "Brian … please. You have to talk to me because … because I need you to. Right now. I won't question you or get into some stupid conversation, okay? But please, just talk to me!" I say in a voice that's a little panicked.  
  
As I move back, so I can see his face, his reaction to my plea is immediate. Brian turns his head, opens his mouth, and draws in shaky lungfuls of air. His face transforms into a pale, strained version of his normal self as he struggles to speak. "It's … okay." He blinks rapidly, a man still half asleep though he's wide awake. Blindly, he reaches out a hand, trying to pat me. "It's okay, Sonny Boy. Okay."  
  
"I know it is, Brian." Tears spring to my eyes. Shit, I'm always first, even when _he's_ falling apart because that's Brian, the most decent man I've ever known. Well, _fuck_ Lindsay, _fuck_ Brendan, _fuck_ anyone who's hurt him, _fuck_ them all! I curl my hand around his neck, and pull him close so I can kiss his cheek. "Everything's fine, just fine. Let's just go home, okay? You and me."  
  
His arms wrap around my waist, and I feel him trembling against me. "Home? Okay … yeah. Home."  
  
"Why don't you trade places with me?" I whisper, fighting the tears that want to fall because I _can't_ upset him anymore than he's already upset. "I can drive."  
  
He presses his face against my shoulder, breathing a little fast, his warm breath hitting my neck when he turns his head. "Okay."  
  
"I'll make you something hot to drink and you-you can get some sleep," I say as I stroke his face. "You need some rest."  
  
"Okay," he murmurs again in a worn voice, his eyes closing, his face suffused with a pain I can barely stand to watch. "Something … hot."  
  
_Oh, God_ , I think, the fear in full bloom as I hang onto him with a fierce protectiveness. _What the fuckin' hell have Lindsay and Brendan done_?


	30. Chapter 30

~ 30 ~  
  
_I wish for… something. A new life. A second chance. A rewind button so I can take back the last two weeks. Maybe a fuckin' time machine. Something. There has to be something._  
  
By the time the esteemed mayor of Pittsburgh, His Honor, Mayor Marvin Deekins, is satisfied that I've shot enough rolls of film to capture him in all his mayoral splendor it's well after seven on a cold and rainy Monday night. The mayor moves on to his next appointment, thankfully taking the stink of his cigars with him, and leaves me in peace to gather my gear and breathe again.   
  
As I put the lens caps back on my cameras, I know I should be hungry because the last meal I ate was at 7:00 a.m. But I'm not. I am, however, so tired I can barely see straight, so tired I almost drifted off several times while Joette was setting up shots, so tired I shouldn't be driving. Did I sleep at all last night? Fuck, I'm not sure. Crouching down, I draw together a few pieces of equipment as I work out in my head the best route to the film processing place. I always try to stay at least one or two steps ahead of what I'm doing at the moment, but tonight that's not working very well. Anyway, given how the rain is coming down, the streets are bound to be a mess, which means it'll take me twice as long to get over there, go inside, drop the film, and get my latest batch of contact sheets before I head home. Should I stop at Leonardo's and pick up a pizza? As I throw stuff into my bag, I give my head a shake. Why bother? I'm too fuckin' tired to eat, and even if I did, the damn knot in my stomach wouldn't allow it.   
  
Abruptly, I sit down on the floor, a sudden light-headedness coming over me. I try to take some deep breaths, looking around His Honor's library where we shot most of the film as if someone might be there to help. No one is, of course, because I am now in full pariah status. It's been that way for a while, but then, what else should I expect? Am I not the motherfuckin' son of a bitch who—  
  
With an impatient growl, I shake away the thought, attempting to refocus, to get back into the normal stream of my conscious thoughts. Okay ... I've never been this tired in my entire life, not even in college where I pulled all-nighters. Of course, I was _happy_ in college, living on my own for the first time as I pursued my dream of becoming a photographer. Everything and everyone I came in contact with seemed filled with possibility. I explored my sexuality and stopped feeling so awkward and unsure of myself. Every class I took seemed to open more doors, more dreams, more excitement. Shit, I wish I'd appreciated that time rather than trying so hard to get beyond it. I wish I was there right now.  
  
The word "sexuality" makes my stomach clench. As I prop myself with one hand against the bristly carpet, I consider the possibility that I'll vomit all over the mayor's Oriental rug. God, life sucks … it sucks so horribly right now that even the thought of it brings tears to my eyes.  
  
Obviously, I lost my assistant. That was a foregone conclusion. Lindsay and I had a little "discussion" that day at Three Rivers after Kelly blew out of there, although it was more like two adults screaming at one another than anything that had to do with conversation. I couldn't think. Nothing was coming out right and every time I did manage a coherent sentence, she said something wacko about our "destiny" and I went off, my brain short-circuited once more. So, nothing was settled except for one thing: I fired her.   
  
Then I went searching for Kelly.  
  
A few days later, I showed up at her house to collect everything connected with my business. I'd e-mailed her first, and asked her to leave it all on the porch at a certain time where I could pick it up without encountering her. She didn't like that and told me so, but by then … well, by then, I was way beyond polite interaction with her or anyone else. When she tried repeatedly to call me, the caller I.D. proved to be a blessing. I haven't spoken to her anytime since in the last two weeks. I delete her voicemail messages and her e-mails. I even check who's at the front door before I open it. And I'm thankful that she hasn't been quite that bold.  
  
Being without her, though, crippled me. It meant I had to do everything she'd been doing, and I was already stretched to the limit _with_ her help. The first few days I was so overwhelmed and distressed about what happened that all I could think to do was tell Marco I wouldn't be able to meet the deadline. The thing is, if I'd done that, my career as a photographer would've been pretty much over because things like that have a way of getting around. It's the flip side of working with someone who has national name recognition. Marco Piermarini would end my career before it even started and he wouldn't be shy about it, either—I was sure of that. I might be able to work as a photojournalist or wedding photographer, but working in the big leagues? Hell no. People talk, just like in any profession. I would've been the fucked up photographer who couldn't handle a commission looked upon by other photographers as a gift straight from God.  
  
So, I decided to keep at it. In a way, it was the only decision I could make. If I wasn't so busy, I'd have time to think, I'd have time to ponder these last two weeks, I'd have time to reflect on what I've done to—  
  
Fuck! I struggle up off the floor and grab the rest of my things. Joette took a few pieces of equipment earlier because we'll need them on Wednesday so I'll be able to manage one armload, although I'll get soaked since my car is nearly three blocks away. Fortunately, Joette has been good about helping with certain things Lindsay was doing, but she's carrying a full schedule at PIFA, so her time is limited. Laying everything on a nearby table, I search for my jacket. The other nineteen-year-old I was working with told me, in a colorful message he left on my voicemail, that I could fuck myself six ways from Sunday. He was done. Not a surprise. People are dropping like flies around me these days, and Justin's loyalty, of course, belongs with … his lover.  
  
As for Kelly, well, he's gone. For good. If he called me, told me he'd been off his meds, and begged me to take him back, I'd tell him, well, to fuck himself six ways from Sunday. He's one son of a bitch I never want to see again, I never want to think about, I never want to imagine in that bathroom stall being fucked by my—  
  
As a wave of sickening anger rumbles over me, I jerk my jacket off the back of a chair and shove my arms in the sleeves, grabbing my stuff so abruptly the cameras bang against me, hard. Stalking out of the library, I say something I hope sounds friendly to the secretary, and head for the elevator where I jab the down button over and over again, nearly breaking my finger in the process. It opens an instant later and I step inside, pushing the button that'll take me to the lobby. As it descends, I do everything I can to _not_ think about Brian, to wipe him from my mind, to make him the invisible man, a guy I never knew, a nobody who means nothing to me. It's hard, though, especially since the elevator has a stainless steel interior and all I have to do is look at my reflection. Mine. Brian's. _Our_ reflection.   
  
He did a horrible thing and I can't bear to think about it, ever, in any detail. Okay, maybe he didn't know it was Kelly, but where was his head, what was he thinking? Didn't he already have a beautiful lover? Did he have to be out trolling for men in Woody's that night? Couldn't he leave at least one gorgeous man for me? Fuck, no, he didn't and he couldn't and it pisses me off so much that he was there, that Kelly took advantage of him, that the whole thing went down the way it did. I fucking can't stand to think about any of it, not even for a minute, because it makes my head hurt so much I think I'm going to have a stroke. It's just too much, he's too much, the whole relationship is just—  
  
I lean my head against the cool metal and try to think of something else. Anything. Okay, okay. It'll be spring soon, right? And the photos will be done and my career will be in full swing. Life will be good. It won't be cold and miserable, but sunny and bright. The days will be long and I'll have lots of money and lots of time to do mundane things like sleep or have dinner out at some nice restaurant or … whatever. Maybe the knot in my stomach will disappear by then. Maybe I'll be able to sleep longer than an hour. Maybe I'll find new friends who won't betray me or jump my bones or tell me I'm scum. If I somehow manage to pull off the Three Rivers project, Marco will be a friend. He has money, influence, fame. That'll all come my way. It'll be good. Things will settle down. It'll all get better.  
  
My eyes close as breath leaves my body. God, it all sounds so empty. No matter how much I hype it, it's not warm and cozy and comfortable, it's not the real stuff of life, the stuff that means something. That's what Brian was. The real stuff. My _brother_. My brother I waited my entire life to find. Then I found him, I was happy, I settled in to live in his town, I enjoyed being around him, having dinner, looking for a Christmas tree, just … goofing with him. I squeeze my eyes tighter. My fuckin' brother and I—  
  
The elevator doors open and I stumble out, heading down the hall toward the main entrance. My feet make a clipped sound against the marble flooring as I take in the blond furniture and vast array of potted plants His Honor uses as decorations in a building that exudes sterility and smells like pine cleaner. Head down, I turn the corner, listening to the rain roaring outside, resigned to the fact I'll get soaked. My thoughts wander and I think I might be asleep on my feet. I wish for… something. A new life. A second chance. A rewind button so I can take back the last two weeks. Maybe a fuckin' time machine. Something. There has to be something.  
  
Someone clears his throat and it occurs to me that even if I am asleep on my feet, even if this place does feel like a mausoleum, I'm not alone in the building. I mean, shit, it isn't _that_ late. I probably look like a maudlin fool caught up in my own drama, unaware of anyone else, my shoulders hunched, my head down, a real loser. I used to be the guy who smiled at other people, who showed a pleasant face. Fuck. Not anymore.  
  
I raise my head.  
  
Dad stands just inside the entrance to City Hall, his umbrella dripping on the blue rubber matting, slowly unbuttoning his raincoat as he catches my gaze and gives me a soft smile.   
  
With an audible gasp, I come to a halt. "Why're you …?" I manage to stutter, but, fuck, what am I asking? Even though I've told him almost nothing about this whole mess, I _know_ why he's here, I know all too well. Carefully lowering the junk in my arms onto the floor, I cover the remaining distance between us in about two seconds, and grab him around the neck, hugging him for all he's worth. He drops the umbrella and it hits the floor with a solid thwack. His strong arms wrap around my waist and a second later, with little murmurs of comfort, he's pressing my head to his shoulder.  
  
And, yeah, you better believe those are tears in my eyes.  
  
***  
"Ladies and gentlemen," I announce with a flourish as I jump onto the couch, "may I present to you, reprising a role he made famous for more than fifteen years, Michael Charles Novotny, former best friend of Brian Kinney!" I sweep a hand in Michael's direction, swaying just a bit. Looking around at my imaginary audience, I put on a big, cheesy smile and clap my hands.  
  
Mikey's standing in the doorway—which I opened a second ago, just after he buzzed-buzzed-buzzed downstairs—and looks pissed. He slams his dripping wet umbrella onto the floor. "What is wrong with you? Are you nuts? You said it was an emergency, that I should—"  
  
"Ah, Michael-Michael-Michael." Okay, I'm into threes right now. It's a theme, a motif, a signature. So what? "You haven't changed. So naïve. Even with Professor Positive there to teach you the ways of life, oh, little one, you still remain open to my not-so-subtle tricks."  
  
"So, there is no emergency?" he says, looking all earnest and cute with that little button nose twitching like a bunny wabbit on speed.  
  
"Emergency? Definitely." I come down off my perch and walk toward him, even though the floor appears to be rolling as I do. It's the Absolut, I'm sure. _Absolutely_ sure. A laugh escapes at my wit. "Mikey. Lissen. I need a ride."  
  
"That's what taxis are for, Brian."  
  
Oh, he's gonna play stubborn. Wee bitty Mikey has on the hurt widdle face and he wants a big fuckin' apology because big, bad Brian's been mean to him. "Taxis aren't fun, Mikey. You are. And my best friend. You know that, right?"  
  
"I thought I'd been replaced. What's the matter? Your Jeep not working?" He puffs up his face and tries to look ferocious. Fuck, I know him too-too well. He'll cave. Jus' watch me work. "Can't drive, Mikey-old-friend. Promised I wouldn't." Fuckin' Justin and his fuckin' rules. _Drink, but no drivin' Brian 'cause that's dangerous-unsafe-hazardous-to-your-health,_ Justin says inside my head, his voice a little screechy. _I'll drive you, Brian, 'cept tonight I have a big, important class to attend, so you'll have to wait 'til I get back._   
  
Fucker.  
  
"Oh, I get it. You promised your _boyfriend_ you wouldn't drive drunk—which you obviously are—so suddenly you're best friends with me again? Well, forget it, Brian! Just fuckin' forget it!" He turns on his heel, stomping toward the door.  
  
"Mikey-Mikey-Mikey." My legs are longer, I get in front of him without even running. "Lissen. Would you lissen?" I give him a shake, then hang my hands on his shoulders, our foreheads bumping. "Always the best friend, Mikey. _Always_. You know that, don't you?"  
  
He pulls away from me, stepping back. "I know you're trying to sweet talk me. What about everything that happened at Thanksgiving? How you were so offended by what we said to Brendan?"  
  
A big, fuckin' knife materializes inside my pleasantly spinning world and stabs me in the heart so hard it make me flinch. Fuck! Can't have that, never, ever, no matter what. "Forgot it," I say to him, and turn, heading for the beverage cart.   
"Something's going on." Mikey follows me. "Mel told me you haven't been to see Gus in, like, two or three weeks. You don't eat at the diner. Emmett said you didn't return his calls. Ma invited you for dinner and you canceled. Something's up."  
  
"Busy, busy, busy," I say, going back to the threes motif. Grabbing a glass, I pour myself another shot. "You?" I gesture toward the booze.   
  
"I'm the designated driver, remember?"  
  
I rock back on my heels, nearly spilling the drink. Damn floor. "Ah! exactly right. Cheers!" I knock back the vodka and go for more.  
  
Mikey grabs my hand. "What's going on, Brian? Tell me."  
  
I stare at him with my best serious face. "You really wanna know, Mikey-old-friend?"  
  
He pushes his lips together because he knows I'm being sarcastic. "Yes."  
  
I nod, jutting out my lower lip just a bit, still serious. "I'm changing careers, Mikey. No more advertising. Gonna leave that behind. Gonna go on to greater glory."  
  
"As what?"  
  
"A dancer!" Tottering to where he left the umbrella, I grab it and push the button that pops it open. I do a little soft shoe, twirling the umbrella as I head back in his direction. "Singing in the rain, I'm singing in the rain," I warble, loud and off-key.   
  
Mikey makes a noise, shielding his face with a hand. "You're getting me all wet! Besides, you're one of the worst dancers in the world," he says, but he's chuckling as I dance my way across the shifting, swaying floor, feet slipping and sliding. Yeah, I know I'm drunk. I worked hard for it, didn't I? I put my heart and soul into being drunk so I ought to enjoy it. "Cut it out! You'll end up on your face!" Mikey follows me, grabbing me around the waist when it seems like I might smack right into the floor. "Would you stop?" he says, taking the umbrella from me.  
  
I lean against him. "Can't believe you think I'm a bad dancer. I try so hard."  
  
"Yeah, I do. Everyone does."   
  
His voice has softened and I know I have him right where I want him. "Le's go to Babylon, Mikey," I murmur at his ear. "Like old times."  
  
"Where's Justin?"  
  
"Out. School stuff."  
  
"Would he approve of you—"  
  
"Don't give a shit."  
  
Michael pulls back to study my face. I'm reading _him_ like there's a banner headline emblazoned across his forehead: **THIS IS MY BIG CHANCE TO GET IN GOOD WITH THE CHILDHOOD FRIEND!** He draws a breath "Okay, but it's still early for Babylon. Want to get a drink first? At Woody's?"  
  
I jerk away from him. "No! Somewhere else!" Turning on my heel, I lurch up the stairs to the closet, and grab a jacket. "Not the only fuckin' gay bar on Liberty," I mutter, although I'm not sure he hears me. As I come back down the stairs, I catch Michael studying me like I'm a specimen under glass. I stop and strike a pose, hips thrust forward, hands out, haughty expression in place. "How's this?"  
  
He laughs. "It's perfect. Okay, come on, but it's raining like hell out there. If you're not careful, you might even sober up."  
  
"Don't wanna be sober," I tell him as we head for the door. "Never again. Ever."  
  
***  
Dad insists we go back to the Hilton where he's staying, though I'm not sure why. He says he wants to order room service, to be able to take off his shoes and relax so we can talk in peace. I know the whole parental what-are-you-doing-with-your-life thing is coming, but Dad's pretty low-key about that stuff, so I don't mind. And frankly, it's great to have someone there who _cares_ about me, so I don't protest, not at all. He drops me at my car, I run my film processing errand, and end up at the Hilton's parking garage, so I don't even get wet.  
  
In his suite, we eat prime rib, baked potatoes with sour cream, and salad, with ice cream sundaes thrown in for good measure. It's way too much food, but I pack away a lot of it since the knot in my stomach has eased. Dad chats about people I know back home, giving me updates. It's been more than two weeks since we've talked, so he has a few stories to tell. I wonder, of course, how he found out what happened, but my assumption is that Jennifer told him. They talk all the time via phone and IM. If it was Jennifer, though, that means Justin told her, which is a little surprising. Does Justin give a enough of a shit about me to pass along something like that? Or maybe that's the point: he told his mom what a fuckin' idiot I am.  
  
We're just scooping the last vestiges of chocolate sauce from our ice cream bowls when I get my answer to that question. There's a knock on the door.  
  
With a smile, Dad goes across the room and opens it.  
  
It's Justin.  
  
He steps inside, looking wet and serious and a little apprehensive. He's wearing a green hooded rain jacket that's wet in more than a few places. As he unzips it, I see that he's bundled up in an off-white cable knit sweater and jeans, but still looks cold.  
  
"Let me take your coat," Dad says in a relaxed voice. Okay, this whole thing was arranged. I'm not sure I like that. "Brendan?" Dad's voice is still low-key, soothing. "Let's sit in the living room and drink our coffee." He picks up the carafe and some cups.   
  
I follow him with the creamer and sugar, not quite able to meet Justin's gaze as I sit down next to Dad on the couch.   
  
Justin sits across from us. "Thanks," he says when Dad hands him coffee—black, with lots of sugar—and holds the cup between his hands, taking a generous sip..  
  
"So …" I look at Dad, then back to Justin. "What is this? An intervention?"  
  
Dad smiles, grasping my arm to give it a warm squeeze. "Not at all. Obviously, I know what happened."  
  
"Jennifer told you?" I ask him, thinking how I'll never be able to look the woman in the eye again.   
  
Dad shakes his head. "Actually, it was Justin."  
  
Surprised, I look over at him. "You talked to my dad? Why?"  
  
He sets his coffee aside. Seated on the edge of his chair, he folds his hands together, and contemplates the floor. "I needed someone to talk to. Someone other than my therapist. Someone who knew all the parties involved, but who … who'd be fair."  
  
Dad smiles at that. "What a nice compliment."  
  
I feel my expression harden. "The last I heard from you, you were telling me to go fuck myself. What changed?"  
  
Justin looks right into my eyes. "I did feel that way because … because of Brian. But I realized, finally, that the only way to fix him is to fix his relationship with you."  
  
"What do you mean, 'fix him'?" I ask, suddenly tense. "Since when was he broken?"  
  
Justin stares, but there's no hostility in the expression. "You didn't think … that he'd just shrug off what happened, did you?"  
  
My breathing hitches at the question. I wrench my eyes from his, studying the carpet underneath my feet. "I didn't think anything, but … I guess I thought he'd be, uh, well … upset, but just for-for a little while. He's pretty tough. He's always struck me as being that way."  
  
The silence following that statement finally makes me raise my eyes to look at Justin. He's still staring, eyes widened, and looks a lot older than his nineteen years. "I don't believe that's really what you think," he says after a moment's consideration. "I think you know him too well for that. And I think you know, despite what we might tell him or anyone else, that, in certain ways, Brian is fragile."  
  
"Yet, everyone who knows you both thinks that's _your_ role," I manage to say even though my throat's gone dry. "You're younger, you've had the bad luck, you're in recovery mode—"  
  
"—under the right circumstances, Brian is very fragile," Justin goes on as if I hadn't spoken. "And what happened when Lindsay, Kelly, and you converged on him that day ... those _were_ the right circumstances, or the wrong ones, depending on your point of view."  
  
"Would you fucking tell me what you're trying to say?" My voice has dropped to a shaky whisper and I know I sound angry, but I feel like I'm being backed into a corner. "I know what I said and did that night wasn't great, Justin—I _know_ that. But, shit, how about what happened to me? Didn't I have a right to be angry? That was one hell of a shock and—"  
  
"Brian's a wreck." Justin speaks simply, no anger in his voice or on his face. "After he punched Kelly—"  
  
"What?"  
  
"You didn't know that? Yeah, he punched him. Broke his nose, according to Jake." He takes a deep breath. "After that, he went out to his car, which was in the alley next to Woody's." Inhaling sharply, Justin takes another breath. "He sat there for ten hours."  
  
"What?" I say again, smacked-in-the-face stupid.  
  
"He was in some kind of a dissociative fugue. He's done that before, probably a behavior he learned as a kid because of the abuse."  
  
Dad makes a noise, although I don't turn my head to look at him, my eyes glued on Justin.  
  
"It took him three days to come out of it, Brendan. He was so … upset he could barely function. I've never seen him like that. It was …" Justin runs a hand through his hair, his face twisting in anguish. "It scared the shit out of me. But I-I talked to Dr. Parrack, my therapist, and he explained what he thought was happening, that the pain was so bad Brian had to retreat somewhere for a while, to regroup." Justin stops, blinking a few times. Then he picks up his coffee to take a drink, and I can see that his hand isn't steady. "So, he came out of that, eventually," he says as he sets the coffee back down. "Know what he's like now? He's drunk, he's clubbing, he's popping E. I had to make him promise he wouldn't drive while he was drinking, it was scaring me so bad. You want to know how he is, Brendan, over what happened, over losing his brother like that?" Justin bites as his lower lip and I see the tears in his eyes. "It broke his heart, that's what I think. It fucking broke his heart."  
  
Even after he stops, I continue to stare at him, the grief gathering in me like the dark clouds of an approaching storm. My lips tremble as if I'm going to speak, but I don't—I can't because what would I say? Nothing. Fuckin' nothing. I try to draw in air, but my chest is constricted, my throat closed. "God!" I finally whisper when the sorrow and pain get so bad I don't think I can stand it a second longer. "What have I done to him? I love him, I wanted him in my life, and I pushed for that, but, now, what the hell have I done to him? Motherfuckin son of bitch! What the fuck have I done?"   
  
As the tears run down my cheeks, I cover my face with both hands.   
  
My body shakes.  
  
And I want to die.  
  
I fucking want to die.


	31. Chapter 31

~ 31 ~  
  
_Brian won't even talk about Brendan. I mean, you can't mention his name. Or Lindsay's. He won't go to Woody's. And, fuck, he's hanging out with Michael again. It feels like we're going backwards, and I'm afraid our relationship might be next._  
  
"Wow, that's some strategy," Daph says to me that afternoon as we eat our lunch on the quadrangle, right after I've detailed the Plan to her. We're sitting outside, thankful for the first sunny day we've had since Monday. "You and Mr. Connelly came up with that?"  
  
"And Brendan." I pop another French fry in my mouth and rearrange my legs so I'm sitting cross-legged on the cold stone bench, grateful for the sun's warmth. "After he got it together and realized I was on his side, his brain clicked into action."  
  
Daph scrunches up her nose, making a funny face. "How mature of you."  
  
"Yeah, he doesn't know all the rotten things I've thought about him ever since this whole thing began." Taking a bite of my hamburger, I blink against the sun's glare and try to remember a life that wasn't all about taking care of Brian. Fuck, he must've felt the same way back when I first came to live with him, so I sure as shit have no reason to complain. Of course, my caring for him is a little different. For instance, I have to appear as if I'm _not_ taking care of him. Brian could be direct with me and always was; I have to be subtle. I can't ask him how he feels or if he's had dinner or whether he'd like to talk. Shit, he won't talk to anyone about anything—that's part of the fucking problem our Plan hopes to change. I inhale deeply. One step at a time. That's what Sean said I should remember. And today: step one.  
  
"So, you've been calling her every day?" Daph steals another French fry. "And e-mailing?"  
  
"Yeah. For about a week."  
  
"But no response?"  
  
"None."  
  
"Wow, I always thought Lindsay liked you."  
  
"She does, but she's not dumb. I mean, it's obvious she's hoping to bury the whole thing."  
  
"Are you sure Melanie doesn't know?"  
  
I laugh, short and sarcastic. "Mel isn't the type of person to be quiet about something like that. If she knew what Lindsay did, she'd be screaming from the rooftops. Fuck, I'm half-afraid she's going to look for a way to blame Brian since she doesn't like him and never has. But … when I talked to her this morning, she seemed clueless as to why I'd want to speak with her. She kept asking if everything was all right, like she thought I was sick or something."  
  
"Or she might blame Brendan."  
  
"Yeah, well, that'd be easy to do. Brendan admitted he saw signs Lindsay was heading off in a crazy direction, but …"  
  
Daphne looks indignant. "Why didn't he do something? It could've kept all of this from happening."  
  
I shrug. "Lots of reasons. Mainly because he's not Brian so he isn't straightforward and doesn't tell people to fuck themselves when they cross a line. But he's also been so busy and Linds was so instrumental in helping him."  
  
"I guess that's true." She steals another fry. "So, you're really going over there today, to confront her?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"That's brave."  
  
Grimacing, I pick up my Coke and take a long, cool slurp of the fizzy sweetness. "I have to do something, Daph. Brian's not coming out of this funk. I'm not letting everything we've worked so hard to achieve go down the drain because Lindsay had some fucked up idea about marrying the _new_ Brian."  
  
"But _your_ relationship is all right, isn't it?"  
  
"How all right can my relationship be when Brian's either a zombie or a drunk? Fuck, the only time he's 'normal' is when he first gets home from work. Otherwise, he's drinking way too much."  
  
"Or he's tricking."  
  
I wish she wouldn't remind me of that, but, shit, it's true. Not that Brian ever stopped. He didn't. I didn't either, although I only trick once or twice a month or when I do a threesome with Brian compared to Brian's six-times-a-day. Okay, I exaggerate, but he's really picked up the pace since Brendan and Lindsay did their number on him. And that's not something we talk about either. I guess in the time I've been living with him, I've learned a few things, such as, he becomes angry if he thinks I'm nagging him, or lecturing. He equates that with the worst aspect of a relationship: one person's perceived control over another. So, I try to do neither.   
  
"And what about your _father_?" Daphne says just then, waving her grilled chicken sandwich as she talks. "You _have_ to tell him right away! It's the same kind of thing. He's been betrayed by people who refused to tell him things and here you are—"  
  
"I know, I know." I give my head a shake and set my Coke aside, wishing like hell I'd told him that whole thing back in the beginning when Dad first called. Now, it's going to be a mess. "I talked to Parrack about it."  
  
"What did he say?"  
  
"Not to tell him."  
  
"What? That's crazy!"  
  
"No, he's right. He says first we have to get Brian back to seeing him—"  
  
"—which he's totally refusing to do."  
  
"Right. Parrack wants me to do a joint session with Brian, and tell him that way, when he's there to help Brian deal with it."  
  
"But Brian's not dealing with _anything_ right now."  
  
"Don't you think I know that? That's why I called Sean. I was desperate. I have to tell Brian about my dad, but first, I have to get him back together with Brendan. And I think I'll need Parrack's help to do that."  
  
"And Lindsay."  
  
"What? Oh, yeah, things have to be resolved there too. Shit." Wow, it sounds like a hell of a lot to do. In fact, thinking about it is giving me a headache. Brian won't even _talk_ about Brendan. I mean, you can't mention his name. Or Lindsay's. He won't go to Woody's. And, fuck, he's hanging out with Michael again. It feels like we're going backwards, and I'm afraid our relationship might be next. So, it's all on me, Sean, Brendan, and the Plan. "Uh …" I take a deep breath, grabbing my Coke as I search for something a little more positive, something to take away this sinking feeling. "Tell me what's going on with the wedding." That's the major reason we're meeting like this, in-between classes, but she had to hear the update. "I took care of the tux, so that's all set. And they did the final fitting on your dress, right?"  
  
She gets a huge, megawatt smile on her face and I remember that some people have relationships that run smoothly. "I still need help with the play list, for the DJ. Did you get the one I sent you?"  
  
"Yeah. It's in my bag." I take one last sip of Coke and put it on the ground, pointing to my burger. "Just let me finish this. Uh, there were some really old songs on that list."  
  
"My mom and dad had a few requests, like this song that was _their_ song when they were in high school or something by a group called the Stylistics. It's _very_ romantic. I kind of like it." She hunches her shoulders like she's cold, but I know it's just the excitement. "Okay, great. And you'll be able to help when we do the wedding favors?"  
  
"Sure." Spend hours with a group of giggling girls putting together frou-frou bags? Just what I've always wanted to do. "I can't wait."  
  
"Plus, I really, really have to decide about gifts for Bailey, Essie, and Trish. You said you'd help with that, but—"  
  
"But nothing." I put on my most confident face though I'm feeling less so by the minute. "When do you want to go shopping?"  
  
"Are you sure you can do all this with Brian—"  
  
"He's a grown man, Daph. I'm not babysitting him. If I was around him too much, he'd get suspicious." Fuck, between school and Daphne's wedding and trying to put Brian back together again, I'm fuckin' on overload. I guess it's lucky I'm still young. "Come on," I say to Daph with a convincing smile. "Let's set a date. There's only six more weeks until you'll be Mrs. David Hall. We have to get these things done!"  
  
"It's Mrs. Daphne Chanders-Hall." She speaks with mock haughtiness, then clasps my arm with a grin. "Okay, that'll be fun. What about next Saturday?"   
  
As I get out my notebook and we begin to discuss dates, I try not think about all the shit I have to do both with her and as a result of the Plan. I try not to think about Brian and how screwed up everything is right now. And I definitely try not to think about my visit later this afternoon.   
  
But it isn't easy.  
  
Not any of it.  
***   
Once I get off the bus and walk the two blocks to Lindsay and Mel's house, I go straight up the stairs to their porch and knock on the door before I can change my mind. This is a heavy thing I'm doing, and I know the shit is going to fly. I've given Lindsay every opportunity to talk to me, to do the right thing, yet she continues to ignore me. She has to tell Brian what she did—that's patently obvious to me. He needs to hear it straight from her lips because that's the only way he's going to believe it. He hasn't said so, but I know he's holding onto the idea that Lindsay is his good friend, that she'd never do anything to hurt or betray him. For Brian's sake, I wish like hell that was true, but it isn't. Brendan told me what happened and, believe me, it wasn't pretty. Lindsay needs to come clean so that Brian can face the truth, so he can move closer to forgiving his brother. First, though, Lindsay has to tell Melanie.   
  
I knock again, but this time the door flies open with such violence I step back. It isn't Mel, who knows I'm coming, but Lindsay, and the fury on her face makes me tighten all over. Oh, shit. Inhaling, I brace myself. "Just what the hell do you think you're doing?" she whispers, and closes the door behind her, the aroma of a garlicky something cooking on the stove wafting over me as she does. She steps toward me, forcing me further back. "Despite what you may think, Justin, someone else's personal relationship is none of your fucking business. You have no right to be here. What goes on between my partner and me has _nothing_ to do with you. And you sure as hell don't have any obligation to Brendan, Brian, or anyone else to come over here and inject yourself into the conversation!" She points at the street, her arm ramrod straight. "Now get out of here and don't let me see you again!"  
  
She's using the voice of a teacher tongue-lashing a wayward student or maybe a mom disciplining a naughty child, two things she's had a lot of experience at. Fuck, I guess I really am still a kid, at least in some ways, because that's my instant response, to react to that voice and do what she's telling me to do. Heat steals into my face, I start to sweat, to tense up, to even tremble lightly. I've done something wrong and she's found me out—that's the response she's engendered. My stomach rolls over and doubt assails me, but I try to push on. "I have a right—"  
  
"You have _no_ right to stick your nose in here." She's leaning so close I can smell something on her breath. Wine? She's drinking fuckin' wine at this hour? "You've already caused a big huge mess by talking to Mel, making her think there's some kind of a problem, a mess _I'll_ have to clean up." Her blue eyes snap with anger. "Now get your ass home before you cause more trouble!"  
  
Once, Brian had a chance to tell Michael something about Dr. David, something Michael didn't know. I heard the story well after the fact, from Emmett, who heard it from Michael himself. Brian found the good doctor at the baths one night, getting his rocks off, but he _didn't_ tell Michael—he stayed out of it. Isn't that what Lindsay's saying now? That I'm trying to interfere with her relationship and I have no right? It's between her and Mel just like it was between Michael and Dr. D? That's true, right? A huge wave of uncertainty washes over me. I'm tired and anxious. Maybe that's to blame, but as I stand there in front of her, my faith in the Plan wavers and I consider the possibility that not only am I in way over my head, I've made a terrible mistake.  
  
"I'm so ashamed of you." Lindsay goes on like she's reading my mind. "Justin, I feel like I've known you for a long time and you've always been such a considerate, nice person. Why would you stoop to something so despicable, so unlike you? I thought we were friends, that there was love and trust between us. I'm astonished you'd think you could push your way between Mel and I for your own gain and—"  
  
"What're you saying?" I manage to insert a few words in the middle of her diatribe. " _I'm_ despicable?"  
  
"Yes, you are! Forcing your way in here in order to—"  
  
"Fuck, Lindsay!" She's always been so nice to me, she's supported me, and helped me deal with Brian. Now she's calling me despicable because I'm trying to get the two brothers back together? That's a little over the line. Shit, it's a _lot_ over the line. "You're the one who went off on some fantasy about Brendan that—"  
  
"Keep your voice down!" she hisses and practically smacks me in the face getting her hand on my mouth. "I am not about to—"  
  
"Shit!" I pull back from her. "You _are_ nuts, just like Brendan said! Would you get a grip? What's wrong with you? _You_ put the moves on Brendan that day at Three Rivers. Now Brian's all fucked up and you're calling _me_ names?"  
  
"Be quiet! That's something you know nothing about!"  
  
"I fuckin' won't be quiet!" I say, raising my voice just to make sure she hears. "You need to face the truth! And you need to tell your lover because she's going to find out soon enough, one way or another."  
  
"She won't find out anything if your just keep you fucking mouth shut!"  
  
Suddenly, the front door opens. With a yelp, Lindsay jerks around in time to see Mel standing there, her dark eyes even darker as she fixes her gaze on her partner. "What the hell are you doing out here yelling at Justin?"  
  
Lindsay straightens out, her expression morphing from anger to something a lot more pleasant, although it looks fake as hell. "Nothing, I-we were discussing, uh, our differing views on good art." She attempts a wavering smile. "You know how explosive that topic can get!"  
  
Mel's expression is anything but warm or welcoming as she looks at Lindsay. "Yeah, that's just what it sounded like. Especially the part about 'she won't find out anything,' coupled with what Justin said about Brendan and Three Rivers. Unfortunately for you, Lindsay, my hearing is just fine, and I remember distinctly when this weirdness between us started: the day you went over to that restaurant to give Brendan his PDA." Her eyes narrow and she looks pissed. "I've had my suspicions and it looks like they're about to be confirmed."  
  
Lindsay goes deathly pale and looks like she might pass out.  
  
Mel comes around her to take a good look at me, her expression softening. "You okay, baby?"  
  
I manage a hesitant nod. "I'm sorry, Mel, I—"  
  
Mel shakes her head. "No, you did me a favor. Shit, it has to come out one way or another, doesn't it? Might as well be at the hand of a friend."  
  
I can't look away from her, immobilized by the pain I see in her eyes. "If it wasn't for Brian and Brendan, I wouldn't—"  
  
She puts her hand on my cheek. "It's okay," she whispers. "You did good. I don't understand why you care so much for that fuckin' asshole, but I know you do. Go home to him. I'll take care of this."  
  
I press my lips together. "She needs to tell him what happened."  
  
"She will." Mel looks over her shoulder at Lindsay, who's backed up against the door. "I'll make sure of that. Believe me, I will."  
  
***

  
Justin made it home early because it wasn't even four when he walked through the door. I was already there because I fuckin' wasn't getting anything done at work thanks to a headache that's part lack of sleep, part hangover. Yeah, I'm not twenty anymore and if I spend too much time partying, I suffer for it. Shit, I hate that, although given every other fucking thing I'm dealing with, it's minor. Anyway, I took one look at him and could see something was bothering him. The kid has that kind of easy-to-read face, although he's gotten a little better at hiding things now that he's been around me so much. He came to where I was working at the dining room table, kissed me, and hung there for a few minutes like he had something to say. He knows, however, that I'm not in much of a talking mood, so it wasn't long before he went upstairs and lay down. Soon, he was asleep, and now, several hours later, he still is. Fuck, he'll be up all night. Unless, he's sick. Should I check his forehead, see if he feels hot? That's all I need, a sick teenager.  
  
Shit. I grab my bottle of water and take a long pull, wishing it were beer. I'm getting more fucked up by the moment, and I haven't had a thing to drink.  
  
With all the people I'm dealing with right now—or _not_ dealing with—Justin is the only one I worry about, although I don't tell him that, of course. Forget everyone else, fucked up friends, family, all of them. Every single person embroiled in this mess is an adult responsible for his or her own actions. Whatever they do, they made the choice to do, and it's not my place to question that or twist my hands like some poor little fag who can't handle life. Justin, though … he's still a kid. Yeah, I know. He's _nineteen_. I can remember what that felt like, how I thought of myself as such a grown up because I'd almost made it out of my teen years. I know he feels that way too, and, let's be clear, he's handled a hell of a lot of shit that most _adults_ don't ever have to deal with. He's strong and he earned my respect a long time ago. Still, everything that went down in the last couple of weeks has had its effect on him, and that worries me. It worries me a lot.  
  
I won't see Parrack. I know that upsets Justin, but the motherfucker only wants to lay a shit-load of his _feel-the-feelings_ crap on me and I'm not having any of that. The guy and his kind are fuckin' insane. What the hell good would that do? Their whole spiel is nothing but a fallacy invented by a bunch of dickless men who don't have anything better to do with their time. Justin, though … Justin needs someone to talk to. So far, he's still keeping his appointments, but he's said a few things that make me believe that might change. The most fucked up thing is, I don't think he's trying to use the appointments as some kind of bargaining chip, which is what I'd expect him to do. The kid can be manipulative, and that seems like a perfect opportunity for him to leverage the sympathy I have for him. Problem is, he hasn't said anything like that, he doesn't threaten or even cajole. He just talks about being disillusioned, that all the time we've spent with Parrack hasn't done more to help "us" through this "crisis." That's what he thinks it is, a crisis, even though he's never said that, not to my face. But, fuck, I can read him just fine and I know what goes on behind those blue eyes. Nor does the "us" part of it fool me because I know he means me, although …  
  
Yeah, we could be in trouble. At the moment, we're all right, but given how everything and everyone has gone to hell, it wouldn't surprise me if the whole fuckin' house of cards came tumbling down. Why should Justin be the exception? What makes him so enamored of me he's immune to the shit flying around? I don't want to be asking these questions, but how can I fuckin' not? Besides, who am I to hold onto him? Let's face it, maybe he'd be better off without me. That's probably true. All this fuckin' business about having a family, people who love you, who'll care for you. It's bullshit. I knew that before this all began, but I didn't use common sense, I didn't think about my past, I didn't consider how I grew up. Instead, I've been a sucker for the touchy-feely shit, especially when it comes to Justin. I began to believe it might work. Who's to say that won't come back to haunt me? Justin could be next. Justin probably will be.  
  
With a great deal of clatter, someone bangs on the loft door. I check my watch. Nearly nine? Who the fuck drops in for a visit at this hour? It must be Mikey, hoping he can persuade me to go to Babylon, but, shit, if I don't get the Riverside account into some kind of shape, I could no longer have the money to go out with _anyone_ much less the alleged childhood friend. Walking toward the door, I glance through the bedroom's panels and see Justin shift on the bed. Good. He needs to wake up. I reach the door and slide it back.  
  
It's Lindsay.  
  
I take a step back, and only then notice that it's not _just_ Lindsay, that Mel is behind her with Gus in her arms. And she looks like she could bite through nails. 

"Can I come in for a second?" Lindsay asks. Her face looks puffy, her skin red and blotchy.

My expression unreadable, I take a few steps back.  
  
She comes a few feet into the loft, turning her head when she hears Justin's footsteps on the stairs.  
  
I twist my neck and see by the look on Justin's face that her arrival is not unexpected. Fuck. I spoke too soon. He _is_ manipulating.   
  
"I'll only be here for a minute," Lindsay says, her eyes fixed on Justin for a long moment before she turns her gaze back to me. "I just need to say something to you."  
  
"Dada!" As Mel follows Lindsay into the loft, Gus sees me and starts wiggling in his mother's arms.   
  
Mel's hard expression softens as she looks at the baby. "Let Dada talk to Mama, okay? Then you can visit."  
  
"Dada!" Gus says again and manages to twist hard enough that Mel loses her grip and sets him onto the floor. Instantly, he toddles toward me.  
  
Ignoring Lindsay, I crouch down and scoop him up, so fuckin' glad to see the little guy it surprises me. "Hey, Sonny Boy! How're you doing?" I say, inhaling his baby powder scent as I stand up. As he sits in my arms, Gus answers back, babbling, telling me tales about his life that make no sense to me, but are important to him. I listen, answering him as best I can, tickled by the serious expression on his face as he talks. Finally, though, I have to focus my attention back on Lindsay.  
  
Which is the last thing I want to do.  
  
Unfortunately, she's ready for me. As she stares, her lower lip trembles. "I'm so sorry, Brian. So sorry." A tear slips down her cheek. "I know it sounds crazy, but I really believed it was our destiny, Brendan and I, that he would be the-the other _you_ , the one I was meant to marry like I always wanted to marry you. That's why I did what I did. I thought … I was afraid I would lose him like I lost you."  
  
My arms tighten around Gus, my gaze never leaving Lindsay's face. _Get me out of here_ , I think, although my expression remains grim. I don't want to hear this shit. Not at all.  
  
"I got carried away with that fantasy, a-a fantasy I've had as long as I've known you," she continues in a choked voice, "but one I pushed into the closet when you told me you were gay. I don't know why, not exactly, I just know I've always … loved you and wanted to be your wife."  
  
"Being _Brian's_ wife and _Brendan's_ wife are two different things!" Mel says behind her, her tone rough, and biting. "Fuck, Lindsay!"  
  
As she's saying this, Justin comes to stand beside me, his fingers grazing my hand. The instant he does Gus reaches out to him, saying, "Jussin!" so I pass the baby to him and turn my attention back to Lindsay hoping like hell she's finished. The teary-eyed confessional is not something I want to play priest to.  
  
Lindsay's gaze drops to the floor and she chews on her lower lip. "Anyway, I just … thought it was important that you know Brendan had nothing to do with that fantasy. He-he never even knew what my feelings were. When I went over to the restaurant, he was dumbfounded. _I_ put the moves on him, not the other way around. That's what set off Kelly, but, Brian, it was me—I hope you're hearing that. It was _me_ the whole time."  
  
I stare at her and I'm thinking … fuck! I don't know what I'm thinking. That she's full of shit? That none of this makes sense? That I thought for sure Lindsay was a grown woman not a starry-eyed teenager? Something like that … maybe. I manage a painful inhalation, but don't say a fuckin' thing.  
  
"I don't expect you to forgive me, not right now." With the tips of her fingers, she wipes more tears from her cheeks. "But some day, I hope you'll be able to. I very much want you to." She stares at me then, taking a moment to look me in the eye like she hopes I'll say something, like I'll smile and tell her it's all right, like I'll open my arms and invite her closer for a kiss and a big, fat hug.   
  
I don't.  
  
"Justin," she says and draws in a deep breath as she turns her attention to him. "I'm sorry. I had no business trying to intimidate you like that. I'm ashamed of myself."  
  
Justin doesn't speak either and when that happens, Lindsay looks startled and dismayed like maybe she just lost her last friend. The hope fades from her eyes and she turns away. A moment later, she leaves the loft and I hear her footsteps fading as she walks quickly down the stairs.  
  
Mel stays in place, hands on her hips, feet spread apart, staring at the ground. Finally, she raises her head. "I'm sorry, Brian. You and I … we've never gotten along, but, shit, what she did, it wasn't right."  
  
I look up at the ceiling like I might find the right words to say up there. "What about … you?" I ask her after a moment.  
  
"I'll be … making a few adjustments to my life. Lindsay is going to go live with her sister, in a tiny basement bedroom she has, while we try to work things out."  
  
"With Gus?" Still holding the baby, Justin looks like he might want to argue that point.  
  
Mel smiles. "Hell, no. Gus stays with me. She's agreed to that. I don't see why he and I should suffer for what she's done. She'll have time every week to visit him, but that'll be the most painful part of this thing—being without Gus." She looks from me to Justin and back. "I'll be needing your help with the babysitting."  
  
"Of course." I move a little closer to where she's standing, Justin trailing behind with the baby. Huddled in a small circle, we talk a bit longer about the childcare logistics, about the couples' therapist they'll be seeing, about money issues, and other practical considerations, but she's gone shortly thereafter, taking my son with her. The door closes and I stand there for a second, not sure I've understood any of what's just happened. Not sure I want to.   
  
I make an abrupt turn, marching across the floor like I'm late for a meeting.  
  
At the dining room table, I find my cigarettes and light one, inhaling deeply. I pace, walking back to where Justin stands in front of the stainless steel counter, restless, but not sure what the fuck I want to do now that the drama is over. Except not think. I turn, going back to the dining room, swiveling on one foot, heading back the minute I get there. I definitely don't want to think.  
  
"You okay?" Justin asks, not attempting to cover up the worry as he watches me come toward him.  
  
Shit. It just might be time to break out the JB.  
  
I stop. Propping myself against the counter, I give him a one-shoulder shrug. "Yeah, sure." I take another hit on the cigarette and know he's biting his lip so he won't say more. He wants to fuckin' analyze every last detail of Lindsay's pathetic speech, he wants to examine me and my feelings, he wants to hash it all out until it's been dissected to the nth degree. I crush out the cigarette, which tastes like shit, my mouth twisting a little. Parrack would be so proud of Justin. "Expose it, scrutinize it, and _move on_ ," I say when the therapist's words pop into my head. "Right?"  
  
In one seamless motion, Justin wraps his arms around my waist, leaning against me. I feel his warm breath on my chest as he rubs my back and snuggles close. "It's expose it, scrutinize it, _feel it_ , and move on," he whispers so softly I almost don't hear.  
  
Without warning, there's a lump in my throat, a huge one I can't seem to ignore. There's a pressure behind my eyes that makes me want to blink, although I don't dare, I know I can't. There's an overall heaviness in my body that increases exponentially with each passing second, that's weighing me down, that's saying something to me I don't want to hear.  
  
My arms envelop Justin and I hold onto him as if my sanity is at stake, as if my very life depends upon it.  
  
And maybe it fuckin' does.


	32. Chapter 32

~ 32 ~  
  
_"You care deeply about the people you love, people like Lindsay and Brendan. And they hurt you, they stuck in a knife and twisted it, hard. Yet, you've got the cojones to sit there and tell me none of that affects you."_  
  
"I don't fuckin' care how many neuroses you think I have, it's all still a crock of shit!"   
  
Across from me, like the well-trained psychologist he is, Parrack doesn't blink or otherwise display any emotion. He sits there and "observes" me with those damn black eyes that always seem to look right through me straight to my soul. "I didn't say anything about neuroses, Brian," he says in his deep voice. Fuck, he should've been a DJ, but it sure as shit serves him well in this profession. "I said you were a complex man. I don't think that's necessarily a bad thing."  
  
I'm standing behind the two chairs in front of Parrack's desk, pacing in the space there because I fuckin' can't stand to sit. I didn't want to do this. Why the fuck am I here? Ryder has just become VanGard and I have a million things to do. I don't have time to dither around with a lot of psychological mumbo-jumbo. "Don't give me that shit, doc. I can translate your gobbledygook. Didn't you once say I was the dark to Justin's light? How much more obvious can you get?"  
  
Parrack's in his fifties, a big bear of a man maybe six feet tall. He's a full-blooded Native American—Cherokee—with handsome, rugged features, lots of black hair he wears short on the sides, longer on top, yet, a man with oddly delicate gestures and predilections—for instance, he sometimes does origami during sessions. Maybe that's his gay side, who the fuck knows? Now, with calm resolve, he catches my gaze and holds it. "I didn't say that. You told me several people had characterized you that way, and I asked you what you thought that meant."  
  
Oh, and he has a great memory. Fuck, this is getting me nowhere. "All right, you didn't say I was a nut-job—"  
  
"I said it made sense that Justin was a little afraid to read you that section of his journal because you're such a complex man. He couldn't be sure how you'd respond."  
  
I stare down at the offending journal, which Justin asked me to bring to the session with Parrack so I wouldn't misquote him, and wonder how I ended up here, how I ended up with a teenager as my lover, how I ended up giving the kid a fuckin' journal, a trip to fuckin' Vermont, not to mention a huge motherfucking hunk of my—   
  
"Why're you so mad?" Parrack asks me and when I raise my eyes, I see his level stare. "You didn't have to come. He didn't even ask you to."  
  
"He manipulated me."  
  
"Did he?"  
  
My gaze returns to the journal. Fuck, I'm so pissed off because I don't think he did, although ... is he _that_ smart, that he knew doing nothing would engender a response from me? "I … I'm the one who asked him about the journal."  
  
"So he didn't bring it to you and tell you he wanted to discuss something?"  
  
"No."  
  
"And he's been keeping his opinions to himself ever since this thing with your brother began?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"And he's managed to not hit you too hard with his own feelings?"  
  
"Okay, shit, yes!" I turn away from him, going to the window in his office that overlooks downtown Pittsburgh. "After the … after Lindsay showed up almost a week ago, I didn't talk about it and neither did he." I'm aware that Parrack knows everything that's gone on because, let's face it, Justin has to unload on someone, and Parrack's the best bet. "I kept expecting him to … badger me about it, but he didn't."  
  
"That's good, isn't it?"  
  
"No, it's not good and you know damn well it isn't!" I jerk around so I can glare at him. "He's having nightmares, he's not eating well, he's radiating so much anxiety he's almost glowing green."  
  
Parrack picks up an orange origami cat that's perched on his desk, turning it in his hands. "So, _you_ asked him why he'd stopped talking to you about journal entries because you realized he hadn't come to you in quite awhile?"  
  
I fuckin' need to stop with the lesbionic activities because they don't work for me. Isn't that obvious? I am not that kind of person. It would be nice for Justin if I were, but I'm not. I don't know how to be and even if I enrolled in an extensive course that taught heart-to-heart communication skills, one that took a year to complete, I'd come away with a failing grade. I can't do that stuff. Why doesn't Justin understand that? Or … maybe he does. "Yeah. I asked him."  
  
"So, does that mean he somehow _manipulated_ you into asking him?"  
  
I walk back to Parrack's little area, but still don't sit down. Damn, I want a cigarette. And I want to get out of here. I want to go somewhere, have a drink, and forget all this shit. Why the fuck did I agree to take Justin's Thursday appointment? "No, he didn't."  
  
Parrack points to the journal where it lays on the padded burgundy chair next to mine. "Did he write that entry—whatever it is—just waiting for you to ask him about journal entires? It was a plant?"  
  
I fuckin' hate the man. "No, he didn't, and it wasn't, although maybe..." My voice trails off as I wonder again if there's a way he could've done that. "No. It's the last entry. It had yesterday's date on it."  
  
"Okay." Parrack looks relieved. "Just attempting to understand, Brian. I'm not trying to make you look bad or somehow blame you. I'm on your side, remember? We established that awhile back, or at least I thought we did."  
  
I come back around to my chair, sit down, and pick up the journal. "Just let me read the fuckin' thing to you."  
  
"And this is with Justin's permission?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Okay."  
  
I open the journal to the last page and clear my throat.  
  
_"Brian always says no apologies, no regrets. That's his mantra. But I think he's wrong and I think the situation we're in proves it. Words are important and they mean something so when a person does something wrong, saying they're sorry, saying they regret what they've done, that's an important step they're taking. Not the only step they need to take because it's true that you have to follow that up with action, but still, it means something to the one who apologizes and to the one getting the apology. Brian seems to think you can just ignore that stuff, even when it affects you so much it could change your whole life. But it doesn't work that way, at least I don't think so. Because if you ignore the negative things, they have a way of coming back to bite you in the ass … or bite someone else._ _  
  
_"That's my big fear. Brian won't deal with what happened with Lindsay or Brendan. He just pretends like it's all right or ignores it. I'm afraid that attitude will come back on him, that it'll poison him. Even worse, it'll poison us. Sooner or later, that'll happen, won't it? I'm not Dr. Parrack and I don't understand all the ins and outs of psychology, but I know how things work with Brian and me. Eventually, it's going to put a strain on us, on everything we've tried to build these months. It's hard, with me being younger, with the bashing, with Brian having problems growing up. Now it'll get even harder. And I fear the day will come when it gets too hard, when Brian can't stand me anymore because I represent that other view, because I want him to move past the hurt and pain he feels rather than stuffing it inside where it'll smolder._  
  
_"I know that's what'll happen because I know him so well._  
  
_"I'm so afraid I'm going to lose him."__  
  
My hands grip the journal so hard I'm surprised I don't break it in two, although such a thing's not possible. "That's it."  
  
"Okay. So, after he read that to you, what happened?"  
  
"I got mad."  
  
"You had a fight?"  
  
"No. Well, yes. A short one. I got pissed and said a few things. Then I … decided I'd come see you."  
  
"And why'd you do that?"  
  
I look up at him, but he's not smiling, he's not looking triumphant. "I don't like to see Justin … upset."  
  
"You care about him."  
  
I grab the journal and put it back in my briefcase on the floor so I won't forget it.  
  
"So, Justin's main fear seems to be that you aren't expressing any emotions about all the shit that's gone down—any emotion except anger."  
  
I shrug. "I'm not him."  
  
"No, you're not. Nor should you be."  
  
I look at him in surprise. "Isn't that the point of what you do? Make everyone 'own' their emotions?"  
  
Parrack turns the orange paper cat once again. "That's bullshit, Brian. Maybe some psychologists feel that way, but I sure don't." He looks up at me, and gives me that crooked little smile of his where one side of his mouth goes up like he's imitating Elvis. "People are capable of varying degrees of emotional expression depending on many factors including their personality and life experiences. I'm sure Justin's mother would tell you Justin was emotive when he was a baby. He arrived in this world that way."  
  
"And never lets me forget it."  
  
"Oh, come on. Isn't that one of the things you find charming about him? He's strong and sure, but he also has this wonderful winsome quality. I can't believe you don't find that appealing."  
  
I slump in my chair. "He's all right."  
  
Parrack laughs. "You're amazing." He sets the cat aside and sits up straighter. "Okay, so Justin fears you'll never acknowledge your feelings about your brother and how he blamed you for the incident at Woody's. Or your feelings about Lindsay's betrayal. And the reason he's afraid is that he fears it'll affect your relationship with him. Do you think that's valid?"  
  
"Fuck, no."  
  
"Why?" He's giving me his challenging look, the one I know well. The man has balls the size of cantaloupes. He doesn't mind one bit getting into my face if he thinks he needs to, something I respect about him.   
  
"I don't blame him for anything that's happened," I tell him now, as cool and unaffected as possible.  
  
"So, that means … you and he are fine, and there's no crossover between those two issues and your relationship with Justin?"  
  
"I don't have issues."  
  
"So, if people screw you over, especially people you love, that's fine with you? You just roll with the punches?"  
  
I stare up at the ceiling, my bored expression firmly in place. "I tell them to go fuck themselves."  
  
Parrack dusts his hands together and shakes them in the air. "Done? That's it?"  
  
"Yep."  
  
"You're so full of shit, Brian."  
  
I cock an eyebrow at him. "You know, I could find a trick at Babylon who'd tell me the same thing and let me fuck him too. It wouldn't cost me a cent."  
  
"Yeah, I'm sure you could. Still, the fact remains, you're bullshitting me and you know it." Parrack leans forward onto his folded arms. "You care deeply about the people you love, people like Lindsay and Brendan. And they hurt you, they stuck in a knife and twisted it, hard. Yet, you've got the cojones to sit there and tell me none of that affects you."  
  
"It doesn't."  
  
"And you're willing to risk your relationship with Justin rather than feel those feelings."  
  
"I don't have a 'relationship.' We're just—"  
  
"Two guys who live together?"  
  
"Fuck off."  
  
"You know what, Brian? You're fooling yourself and even worse, you _know_ you're fooling yourself. It's called denial. We've talked about it before, in some detail, about how you created that necessary defense mechanism as a kid because you had to deal with certain issues in your life from the helpless position of a child. How that same mechanism that served you so well back then is now killing you inch-by-inch."  
  
"Fuckin' drama queen," I murmur.  
  
"Actually, as you well know, I'm a lot like you," Parrack says with a little heat in his voice. "I come from a generation where men didn't emote. I also happen to be a pretty taciturn individual. And I handled most of my early relationships the same way you're handling yours: I remained the big, strong, silent type. But, since I'm a psychologist, I eventually learned how to express my feelings, at least to some extent. If you think, however, that I have big sob-fests whenever I feel the slightest twinge of pain, you're wrong."  
  
I look over at him, and see he's telling the truth. "Then why're you pushing me?"  
  
"Because Justin is right. If you don't acknowledge what's happened, it's going to sit there in your gut and seethe until it poisons everything in your life. What happened to you was terrible, Brian. Your brother, whom you opened up to, whom you let into your life, whom you came to love, _betrayed_ you when he caught you with his ex-lover. Oh, sure, he was shocked, he had a right to be upset, but that doesn't take away the pain of what he did, of how he treated you in that moment. And Lindsay—God, Lindsay, the mother of your son, one of your best friends! She tried to replace you, Brian. She wanted to trade you in for a newer model. What a massively fucked up thing to do!"  
  
I stare down at my hands clenched in my lap and somehow miss the moment when he gets up out of his seat and comes to sit beside me. My eyes fixed on my hands, I wait for his next bullshit move, ignoring the strange pressure in my chest and my sudden short breaths.  
  
"I tell you what," he says, and lays his hand on my shoulder for just a second, giving it a squeeze, "how about we try this? I don't expect a big scene from you, now or ever. I know there must've been times you cried, and that's great, but I don't expect tears. Both of us, you and I, aren't the tearful type. All I want you to do is acknowledge what I'm saying, aloud, right here, acknowledge it with words. That's all you have to do."  
  
"Why?" I manage to ask.  
  
"Because it has to come out into the open. It's the elephant in the room, right there just off to your left, big and hairy and scary as hell. By acknowledging it, you take back control, you let yourself feel what you need to feel in the way _you_ feel it, not the way some touchy-feely types say you should. And Brian? You won't destroy yourself, doing that. I know that's what it feels like, peeking out from behind that barricade you've erected, but I promise, it won't."  
  
I sit a little straighter. Fuck, I'm Brian Kinney. Since when is _anything_ scary to me? "You … just want me to say it? That's it?"  
  
"That's it."  
  
I give it some more thought, silent so long I can hear the traffic outside, the gurgling sound his aquarium makes, the ticking of the gold clock on his desk. This is ridiculous and I know it, but for some reason I feel … challenged. How retarded would I have to be if I couldn't do something this easy? It's talking. It's words. Words mean nothing. I just need to humor him and, if I do, maybe it'll be enough for Justin, maybe he won't be so afraid. Because, let's face it, I can't fuckin' stand to see that look in his eyes anymore. It's making me nuts. And maybe Justin's right about the other stuff too. Maybe it will affect us and maybe, well, maybe I don't want that happening. I don't, do I? Losing Justin? The whole thing we have, whatever-the-fuck it is, going to hell? Oh, sure, that's exactly what _should_ happen, that's what I'd expect, but if I have a say in how it all goes down and if saying a couple of stupid sentences to a big bear like Parrack makes such a huge difference, why don't I …  
  
"My brother—" The words lacerate my heart and my voice hitches unwillingly. "Brendan blamed me for what happened with his ex-lover," I say in a rush. "He said all I cared about was fucking another hot guy, that I never stopped to think it might be his … it might be Kelly. He would've punched me if Kelly hadn't stopped him, which …. I don't know, that surprised me. I had no fuckin' idea what was going on, I was duped, but he didn't give a shit. He just … told me I could fuck myself and walked out," I finish, out of air, the rush of memories swirling in my head.  
  
Parrack says nothing, nodding when I look at him.  
  
"Lindsay … said she wanted to marry me, but knew I was gay, so she—" I stop when it feels like I can't breathe, taking a moment to fill my lungs with air. "She decided she'd marry Brendan, which is the most fucked up thing I've ever heard in my—"  
  
"Don't go off on the anger."  
  
Shit. I bite my lower lip and take a deep breath. "She wanted to replace me," I say, short and sweet. "After all this time, as long as I've known her, and all we've been through, she was fuckin' ready to trade me in for another model, one who happened to look just like me. She fuckin' wanted to trade _both_ Mel and I for someone else! Shit!" I spring up out of the chair, going to the corner of the room close to the window. "Shit!" I shout, and smash my hand against the wall. "Goddamn, fucked up people! " I slam my hand into the wall repeatedly. "Fuck them! Fuck them all!"  
  
Breathing hard, my heart hammering in my chest, I stand there, arms propping me up on either side like I've been sent to the corner as punishment. Yeah, that's about right, isn't it? _Punishment_. Wasn't that when I learned how to erect such a sturdy wall around my heart? My eyes close as I'm rocked by the fucked up feelings that have been pounding against that barricade all these weeks, my chest tightening, my eyes filling with unshed tears.  
  
_Fuck Lindsay! Fuck Brendan!_ I manage to think, _I hate them. I fucking hate them both!_  
  
But I know I don't.  
***  
By Sunday evening, you can stick a fork in me because I'm done. Justin and Dad had such high hopes for the so-called Plan, but guess what, guys? We've gone through almost all the steps, and Brian _still_ hasn't budged. He saw Dr. Parrack on Thursday, but Justin can't tell if it did any good or not. Brian's been quiet ever since, not saying much to anyone, Justin included. Okay, he doesn't seem quite so tense, Justin says, and maybe that's a good sign, but, truthfully, we don't know if the session did him any good or not. He hasn't been out partying like a wild man. Is that a good sign? Who the fuck knows? I only know it's been four weeks since this whole fucked up affair started and I'm sick of the whole thing. Yeah, what Justin did was wonderful. Getting Lindsay to confess her role in the whole thing … I'm sure that helped, at least on some level. And Justin being able to somehow get Brian to the psychologist … well, that was pure genius. I have no idea how he did it, but he's good, I'll give him that. Very good.   
  
Still, as I'm driving over to Tremont, I feel like I can't wait a second longer to get this part over with whether it's the right moment or not. I want to talk to Brian face-to-face, to tell him how I feel, to ask his forgiveness. If I'm blowing it by showing up too soon, well, I guess I'll just have to live with that. It's been four fuckin' weeks and I need my brother back. I've grown used to him, to the way we'd talk on the phone just about every day. Yeah, no one but Justin knows that, but it's true. Sometimes, we'd talk more than once especially if Brian had advice to offer or he thought I needed bolstering. I do get discouraged, that much is true, and I could always count on Brian to call me or leave a message calling me a "pussy boy" in one sentence while offering me good advice in the next. He knows how to take good care of people he loves even if some of them don't seem to get that.   
  
Shit! I pound my fist on the steering wheel as my own words convict me. _Brian_ knows how to care for people, Brian, the one from the dysfunctional family. I must've set back by at least a hundred years the notion that growing up in a loving family was an advantage. Making a sharp turn onto Tremont, I come down the street at a slower pace, and see Brian's Jeep parked out front of his place. Pulling up behind it, I get out of the car and walk to the door where I have my first good luck of the day. A middle-aged woman leaving the building holds the door for me with a smile in place. "Thanks." I sigh in relief. Great. At least now, I don't have to be rejected out here on the street when Brian refuses to buzz me in.   
  
At the loft door, I raise my hand and then hesitate. Fuck, am I blowing all our careful plans by doing this? I've never been known for my impulsiveness, but maybe this is the one moment it sinks me and wouldn't that be ironic? Oh, shit. I can overanalyze anything, can't I? Maybe pushing a little is just what's needed right now. After all, I'm the one who fucked things up so I'm the one who ought to fix them.  
  
I knock on the loft door.  
  
When it slides open a moment later, I'm surprised to find myself facing Michael, who gives me an immediate frown. "What the fuck do _you_ want?"  
  
It looks like nothing has changed, at least not from Michael's perspective. "I'm here to see Brian," I say in as forceful a voice as I can muster.  
  
"He doesn't want to see you," Michael's says like a nine-year-old.  
  
"Do you mind if I let him tell me that?"   
  
"Look, haven't you done enough? Everyone on Liberty Avenue knows what you did and—"  
  
"Michael."  
  
I stop breathing when I hear Brian's voice.  
  
"Fuck, Brian!" Michael is looking off to one side where I can't see thanks to how little of the door he's opened. "I thought we were going to Babylon."  
  
"I never said that." The door slides further open and Brian and I are face-to-face.  
  
"Hi." My throat is dry so the word comes out a whisper.  
  
Brian's gaze rests on me briefly before it hits the ground. "Go home, Michael," he says, and walks away from us both.  
  
Michael glares at me, but grabs his jacket and stomps out the door, heading down the stairs.  
  
Shit. I take a step inside, hoping I have his tacit approval to enter, and slide the door shut.  
  
"What do you want?" Brian says, his back to me.  
  
Looking around, I realize Justin is standing in the living room like a frozen statue, watching the two of us.   
  
I take a couple of steps toward Brian, but stop before I'm too close. "I came to say I'm sorry," I say to his hunched shoulders and stiff posture, "sorry for what I said to you that day at Woody's, sorry for losing my temper and shoving you, sorry for-for everything."  
  
His head down like he finds the hardwood floor fascinating, Brian doesn't say a word for the longest moment. "Sure took you long enough."  
  
Fuck. I inhale deeply. "There was a school of thought that … you needed some space."  
  
Brian raises his head and looks over at Justin, but the kid doesn't flinch, staring back as if to say, "Guilty as charged." Brian shifts from one foot to the other, still with his back to me, shoving his hands into his back pockets as he shrugs. "Whatever."  
  
"No, it's not 'whatever.'" I take a step closer, speaking with sudden firmness. "It's important because you're important … to me. I need to let you know that it was fucked up, what I did, and I wish I could take it back, but I can't. So I'm asking for your forgiveness."  
  
Brian turns and I'm expecting anger—blazing eyes, wild gestures, scathing sarcasm, all of it. Instead, he just stares. "Why the fuck do you say that? I'm _important_? Shit, Brendan, you and I have only known one another for a few months. How the fuck important could I be? That's bullshit."  
  
"It's not bullshit, not to me," I say with a little of my own anger. "I know you think it's lesbionic and fucked up to say so, but the truth is, I love you. I know that sounds lame given what I did, but, hell, people who love one another also hurt one another. That's not an excuse though because I know what I did and I understand the … hurt you must've felt especially since you had no fucking clue what was going on that night."  
  
"I wasn't hurt. You're putting words in my mouth and I …" Brian stops before he can finish, rubbing his head, looking confused as he searches the room like maybe he's lost something. " It … doesn't mean anything. I've moved on."  
  
"Well, don't move on with the idea you mean nothing to me. You do. In fact, except for my dad, I can't think of anyone who means more to me than you do."  
  
Brian bites his lower lip and I see his eyes widen in a way that tells me I've hit him in the heart even if he isn't going to acknowledge it. "You're right about the lesbionic part," he says, his voice rough and unsteady. He clears his throat and rubs his face with both hands.  
  
Okay, is that a little opening where I see the light shining through? I might as well go for broke. "The truth is, Brian, I need you. I know that sounds like bullshit hearts and flowers, but it's true. Even in the few short months I've been in Pittsburgh, you've helped me in so many ways and have been such a fuckin' good big brother. Now, thanks to the Three Rivers project, I'm about to crash and burn in a big way and I'm going out of my freakin' mind trying to figure out what to do. I can't always tell Dad everything that's happening because, well, he'd worry too much and I don't want to do that to him."  
  
Brian considers this for a long moment, studying me like I'm a something he turned up under a rock. Maybe it's just my imagination, but his eyes seem to soften. Finally, he gives his head a disgusted shake, but there's no anger in the gesture. "Would you listen to the whining? Fuck, Brendan, I let you out of my sight for a few weeks and you fall apart."  
  
His words are music to my ears, a music that makes me want to dance, although, of course, I don't. "So does that mean … am I forgiven?"  
  
He looks deeply offended. "Fuck, would you cut out the groveling? It doesn't become you."  
  
The warmth infuses me like someone just lit a nice cozy fire in my heart. I step closer. "Would you … punch me if I gave you a hug just to, you know, kind of seal the apology?"  
  
Brian's eyes are on the floor again, but I can see the pleased—maybe even touched—expression he's trying to hide. "I absolutely would," he murmurs, and struggles not to smile. "You sure as shit have one coming."  
  
Nonetheless, I swoop in on him and wrap my arms around his neck, hugging him tightly. "I'm so fuckin' sorry," I whisper, for his ears only.  
  
His arms are around my waist and he returns the hug. "Don't ever shove me like that again or I'll kick your ass from here to Spokane," he whispers back.  
  
We pull apart, but he looks me right in the eye. "Speaking of physical contact," I say to keep myself from slobbering all over him and making a scene, "I heard you punched a certain someone and broke his nose."  
  
Brian looks pleased with himself. "Mr. Pretty Boy might need a little reconstructive surgery."  
  
"I hope it costs him a mint," I say with a certain amount of satisfaction.  
  
We both turn our heads at the same time to find Justin beside us, that bright smile of his lighting up his face not to mention the entire room. "You guys want a beer?" he says with suppressed excitement, bouncing on his toes.  
  
"Mr. Lesbionic, Two. Fuck." Brian shakes his head. "Stuck between the two of you again? I might as well fuckin' shoot myself." He glares at Justin. "Yeah, get the beer. It looks like I'll be spending some time saving Brendan's ass … again."  
  
As we walk toward the living room, I am ready to laugh so hard I'll probably cry. It's over? Fuck, just like that, it's over? "Aw, come on, Brian. You know you love saving me. It makes you feel superior."  
  
Brian flops down on the couch, eyebrow raised at me. "I _am_ superior."  
  
"Oh, yeah, how could I forget?"  
  
He nods. "Good. Just keep that in mind."  
  
As I join him on the couch, I'm happy to concede that. Fuck, I'm happy to concede anything.   
  
Justin is there a second later handing out beer, and grins down at me, winking as he does.  
  
I can't help but return the grin.   
  
Fuck, I have my brother back!


	33. Chapter 33

~ 33 ~  
  
_"David, maybe you should give her a chance to cool down," I say because, fuck, what is going on here? Their wedding is at stake, isn't it?_  
  
"Would you stop looking at your feet?"  
  
I glance at Brian just before he swings me around the "dance floor" once again. We've cleared the living room area just like we did months ago when Brian tried to stimulate my memory, and are doing a little slow dance. Only this time it has nothing to do with my memory, although … well, I wish it did. "I can't believe I actually danced as well as you say I did," I tell him as we sway to the dreary Musik on the stereo. Shit, I feel so awkward, yet he and Daph have both said repeatedly I danced like Fred Astaire the night of the prom. Sure. Maybe Fred _Flintstone_.   
  
Brian rolls his eyes. "Calling me a liar?"  
  
"No. I just … it's frustrating not to remember."  
  
With gentle pressure, Brian's hand squeezes mine. "Concentrate on the _now_. Isn't that what _Parrack_ would say?"  
  
He's still on me about that appointment a little over a week ago, the one that did so much good. Of course, he'll never admit it helped, not even under torture. And next week, although he doesn't know it yet, we'll be going to see Parrack together so I can finally tell him about Dad. Shit, I'm not looking forward to that appointment. "I am concentrating on the now. I just don't see why I have to dance at this wedding."  
  
"You're the man of honor, remember? You wanted to do this."  
  
Yeah, like today, I have the "privilege" of going with Daph and David to his grandmother's house, er, mansion, to get an idea where everything's going to be set up so they can give the wedding planner the final layout. Loads of fun. Almost as much fun as the girls' party tomorrow when we put together the favors. What the hell was I thinking? I could be here fucking with Brian, but, no, I have to throw myself into the middle of a hetero ritual that I'll never be able to have, so there's no payback for Daph. I mean, if two men _could_ marry it'd take Brian about twenty years before he'd be okay with it and by then who knows what god-awful dress I could find for Daph to wear? But no, the government says no-can-do. That sucks. But speaking of fucking …  
  
I slide my hand down to Brian's fine ass and give it a little squeeze. "I don't have to leave for another forty-five minutes," I say softly and slip the hand around to cup his crotch. "We've got plenty of time to play."  
  
He looks down at me, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "You dragged me away from my work to go over the dancing shit with you, and it turns out you just wanted my body? Is there no dignity left for me? Am I nothing but a hunk of meat you can—?"  
  
I squeeze gently. "A _huge_ hunk of meat." Ever since Brendan came back into our lives, Brian and I have been fucking like bunnies … although, I'm sure if Brian were an animal, he'd rather be a stallion. Still, you had better believe I've been taking advantage of every single moment of that action. "Besides, we're falling behind today. We've only done it twice."  
  
"You're not including the blowjob in the shower."  
  
"Oh, yeah, I forgot about that."  
  
"How the fuck could you?" As Brian leads me across the floor once more to the boring song he's picked out as typical wedding music, he sounds indignant. "I worked hard on that."  
  
"Yeah, you have to work _so_ hard with a nineteen-year-old at his sexual peak." I stick my tongue out at him. "As soon as your mouth got anywhere near my dick, I was shooting."  
  
"Yeah, that'd be true if me and my mouth were halfway across town."   
  
Brian's good mood is my good mood, but I feel a little … what's that word people use? _Randy_. Exactly. Despite all the bunny sex, I'm still a little randy, so with a twinkle in my eye, I let go of him and go over to the stereo. Where's that CD, the one Daph gave me that has all the old songs her parents want for the wedding? I played it a couple of times and some of that shit is good. I find the case, marked with the red Sharpie letters WEDDING on it, and pull out the CD, popping it into the slot and keying it to the right song. As the music begins, I twirl around and give him a bright, lurid smile.  
_  
_Baby I'm hot just like an oven_  
_I need some lovin'_  
_And baby, I can't hold it much longer_  
_It's getting stronger and stronger__  
Swaying my hips in an exaggerated, suggestive motion, I dance toward him, showing him a sultry pout.   
  
With a smirk firmly in place, Brian watches. I can tell he recognizes the old Marvin Gaye song, [**Sexual Healing**](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GVTN5o9Kgu8), because as soon as I start to lip synch the chorus, he's right there with me. _  
_And when I get that feeling_  
_I want Sexual Healing_  
_Sexual Healing, oh baby_  
_Makes me feel so fine_  
_Helps to relieve my mind_  
_Sexual Healing baby, is good for me_  
_  
When I reach him, I hump his leg, working my crotch down his thigh as I thrust in little counter-clockwise motions against him in time to the music's slow beat … first one leg, then the other. Running the palms of my hands up his chest, I lick my lips, gliding my tongue slowly over them again and again.  
  
_Whenever blue teardrops are falling_ _  
_And my emotional stability is leaving me_  
_There is something I can do_  
_I can get on the telephone and call you up baby, and_  
_Honey I know you'll be there to relieve me_  
_The love you give to me will free me__  
Unfastening his shirt one sensual button at a time, I run my hands over his nipples. Then, my gaze on him, I wet the thumb and forefinger of each hand before returning to tweak both nipples until they're hard little nubs, which makes him draw back his head in a little gesture of pleasure. Rubbing my cock against his denim-covered crotch with a firm upward motion, I draw closer and closer to his mouth, still licking my lips. His eyes are at half-mast by now, very green and alive with lust as he watches my performance.  
  
_If you don't know the things you're dealing_ _  
_I can tell you, darling, that it's Sexual Healing_  
_Get up, Get up, Get up, Get up, let's make love tonight_  
_Wake up, Wake up, Wake up, Wake up, 'cos you do it right__  
Still dancing, I encircle his waist with both hands and gyrate until I'm behind him. My hips grind against his ass as I put my arms around him, thrusting forward.  
  
_And when I get that feeling_ _  
_I want Sexual Healing_  
_Sexual Healing is good for me_  
_Makes me feel so fine, it's such a rush_  
_Helps to relieve the mind, and it's good for us_  
_  
Reversing direction, I come back around to face him, surprised he's been still such a long time just letting me play out this little scene. One glance at his crotch tells me I've had the desired effect: his cock strains against his jeans and obviously approves of my little private dance. With another steamy smile, I turn around, grinding my ass against his hard-on.  
  
_Come take control, just grab a hold_ _  
_Of my body and mind soon we'll be making it_  
_Honey, oh we're feeling fine_  
_You're my medicine open up and let me in_  
_Darling, you're so great_  
_I can't wait for you to operate__  
Like a snake striking, Brian grabs me and, with my feet barely touching the floor, drags me to the dining room table. Sweeping a hand across the papers piled there, he lifts me onto the thing and presses me onto my back. Sliding his hands between my legs, he spreads them apart and then flattens himself against me. Engulfed by his warm body, he clasps me behind the neck and, soft lips atop mine, kisses me until I'm senseless, my head spinning like I've been drinking. Then he pulls back, undoing my pants and sliding them off in a practiced motion that nonetheless leaves me delightfully breathless. As he rustles around in his jeans, pulling out lube and a condom, his eyes connect with mine. "You're about to see _me_ operate," he says with a wicked smile.  
  
That's when the fun begins.  
  
***  
David's grandmother, whose full name, he tells me in the car, is Sapphira Katherine Davis Hall, is the widow of Harlan Boyd Hall, and one of the first successful black entrepreneurs in the area. They built a gigantic house that probably ought to be a historical landmark once Mrs. Hall passes. I mean, as we come up the driveway, my mouth drops open at the size of the thing. It's one of those Tudor-style mansions, white with black half-timbering, overlapping gables, tall, narrow windows, and a steeply pitched roof. Mrs. Hall is at a luncheon, but David gives us a rather truncated tour of the interior, enough to make me believe I definitely wouldn't want to live there. Too much old-though-expensive furniture, Persian rugs, paintings that are almost all pre-Impressionist, and lots of big, flowery patterns on the furniture and the drapery. The most modern thing in the whole house is the kitchen, which has updated appliances. I'm sure the cook appreciates that.  
  
We come out a set of French doors and head for the "backyard," which is a huge stone and brick area down a long flight of curving stairs, the kind of stairs that have gigantic brick columns with lampposts on them every so often along the way. "You're really going to walk down all these stairs in high heels and a wedding gown?" I say to Daphne as we make our way down. It's a graduated descent, about ten steps, then a landing, then another ten steps, but still … "I sure hope it isn't raining."  
  
Daphne grins at the idea of her grand entrance. "If it rains, the whole wedding moves indoors."  
  
"Oh, right. I forgot."   
  
We walk into the area where the chairs will be set up, the scent of flowers heavily on the breeze all around us. "So, we have a couple of possible configurations as far as the chairs are concerned," David says, waving the diagrams he's gotten from the wedding planner. "And then we need to decide if we want the tent here or here." He's pointing at two separate areas on the diagram.  
  
David's looking pretty sharp today, dressed in cargoes and a lightweight blue sweater that shows off his body and makes me understand why Daph is so crazy about him. The preppy David seems to have disappeared, replaced by this hipper version. "Uh, so how big is this tent again?" I ask him as I stare at the two areas indicated. I'm not sure why I'm included in the decisions usually made by the bride and groom. Something about my being "artistic." If they wanted some truly inspired answers, I'm thinking, they should've invited Brian.  
  
"The tent's forty-by-one-hundred, with a dance floor." David rocks on his heels and looks at the sky. "Although, if my grandmother keeps inviting people, we may have to go with the larger one, which is forty-by-one-hundred-and-forty. With a dance floor."  
  
"Yeah, I know all about the dance floor." I roll my eyes at Daph, who was the one insisting I brush up on my dance steps so I could dance with her as well as Brian. "Is that second one the largest tent they have?"  
  
"It's going to be _huge_ ," Daphne says, at David's side hanging onto his arm, still smiling like crazy. Talk about living your fantasy. Soon, Daphne's going to believe she's one of Disney's princesses. "And you," she continues, wagging a finger at me, "are going to dance with me and enjoy it!"  
  
"You said I enjoyed it before, at the prom." I give her a crooked grin. "So I guess I will again."  
  
"You _did_ enjoy it … at least until that gorgeous boyfriend of yours came waltzing in and took you away from me."  
  
This must be my dancing day, because suddenly I whirl around, arms held high as I do an insane sort of cha-cha step. "Like this?" I say with a chuckle.  
  
Daphne and David laugh. "Exactly like that!" Daphne says, "only faster."  
  
Wiggling my hips, I speed up the pace, and I even throw in a couple of high kicks, like I'm one of the Rockettes, making a goofy face to go along with the silly dancing. "How's this? Do you think you'll be able to follow me without tangling yourself in your wedding dress?"  
  
It's at that unfortunate moment that Mrs. Hall chooses to appear, materializing out of nowhere like the wicked witch in _The Wizard of Oz_. Okay, she's _not_ a witch, and I shouldn't be thinking like that, but she _is_ dressed mostly in black and she does suddenly come upon us. She has on a black suit with a frilly white blouse underneath and walks toward us, a black cane with a gold handle helping her along the way. David told me she was in her eighties and she looks it, although, as she strides over to where we're standing, her posture is erect posture, her steps firm. She _did_ make it down all those steps by herself, so she's doing really well to be that old. Her eyes, alive and snapping, are fixed on me and, fuck, she has a frown on her face.  
  
Following my startled expression, David turns around. "Grandmother!" He hurries toward her and takes her elbow to help her down three steps that lead to the stone area where we're currently standing. Then he makes the necessary introduction since I've never met Mrs. Hall before.  
  
She does not seem friendly, but she's polite. Fortunately, I know better than to extend my hand, but, let's face it, I know all about being well mannered and I'm my usual, gracious self. "I was just showing Daphne and David some of my best dance moves," I finish with a slight smile.  
  
Her expression doesn't change. "And what is your position in the wedding?" she asks like she's interviewing me. So far, it seems, I'm not doing very well.  
  
"I'm the man of honor."  
  
"The … _man_ of honor?" she replies, and her chilly gaze returns to her grandson. "This appears to be a detail you neglected to mention."  
  
Oh, shit. My eyes connect with Daphne's, but her face is unreadable. "I guess it never came up," she says to her future grandmother-in-law in a voice that's very polite, but also firm, "especially since it was my decision."  
  
Mrs. Hall's gaze falls back on me and she does a quick appraisal, apparently not liking what she sees. "I would not think, Mr. Taylor, that a _real_ man would consent to such a thing."  
  
The silence that follows is broken only by the gentle breeze rustling the tree branches around us. David's eyes have gone round, his lips pressed together in a tight line as he stares at his grandmother like she's morphed into a two-headed monster. Daphne's mouth is opened, her face set as she stares off into the distance. And me? I'm fighting anger and fear in equal parts. I didn't come out of the closet to be disrespected by some hundred-year-old crony who's still living in the Dark Ages. On the other hand, this is Daphne's _wedding_ and I sure as shit can't blow that up because this woman is a homophobe.  
  
"Grandmother, may I speak with you in private?" David says when he finally has the presence of mind to speak, although it's only been a few seconds. His voice terse, he's standing tall and appears to be very determined. Wow, it looks like all our talks about David being his own man paid off.  
  
The two of them go off a bit and begin to talk, but, of course, they're arguing in a kind of genteel upper class way. Daph and I look at each other, and I can read the message like it's scrolling across her face. Meeting Brian, being outed by him, making mistakes with Chris Hobbs, paying dearly for those mistakes—my whole sad history flashes there.   
  
The voices rise and even though they're standing a good distance away and Mrs. Hall doesn't have a particularly strong voice, I distinctly hear the word "pouf" being used, not once, but several times, and each time it's said, she jerks her head in what I can only describe as distaste. Then the volume of David's voice increases.  
  
"Fuck," Daphne whispers. Moving to stand next to me, she puts an arm around my waist.  
  
_Pouf_? She's calling me a pouf? I've been called many things, but that's a new one. What next? A "pantywaist"? Wasn't that another old-fashioned term for a homosexual? An eighty-year-old rich black woman is insulting me because I'm a man of honor and did a stupid little dance? Shit. This is seriously fucked up.  
  
David says something to his grandmother and, before she can answer, he turns abruptly and comes toward us. The anger in his eyes tells it all, and, in the middle of my mixed up feelings, I'm proud that he's behaving so courageously. According to everything I've heard from Daph, he's really grown up, and here's proof of it right before my eyes. "Listen, I apologize for this," he says and looks very pained. "It's … I had no idea she had feelings like that. She came through the civil rights movement, for God's sake!" He looks embarrassed. "We'll do the wedding planner stuff some other time. Would you two go back to the car and wait there for me? I'm going to have it out with her."  
  
"David, maybe you should give her a chance to cool down," I say because, fuck, what's going on here? Their _wedding_ is at stake, isn't it? I have the right to be respected, true, but, at the expense of their future happiness? Wouldn't I rather, I don't know, just drop out of the wedding or find a way to be a little less gay to her somehow? Something like that, though how do I go about being less gay? I'm not even sure what her major complaint is, but, fuck, this is serious stuff. It's four weeks until David and Daph get married and believe me, I'd do a Justin-Taylor-Straight-Guy thing like that for them if it came down to it ... I'm pretty sure I would. I wouldn't be _happy_ about it; in fact, I'd be pissed as hell. However, they're my friends and I love them, so why wouldn't I? I sure as shit don't want to ruin their wedding over someone's fucked up homophobia. I mean, sure, that's serious, but Mrs. Hall isn't threatening to send me off to ex-gay camp or get some guys to work me over … at least, I hope not. She just doesn't care for me, right? So, wouldn't I tone it down, if that's what would calm her? "I don't need pride flags at every place setting," I tell David now, nervous as hell as I consider the implications of this little scene. "Maybe you should—"  
  
"Fuck, no. I'm going to talk to her and get this issue aired. She and I … we've had a few major issues and I think, well, this just might be the right moment to discuss our different ideas about life. I've put it off far too long as it is." He shrugs. "It's not you, Justin. It's my attitude versus hers."  
  
"But I could—"  
  
"You could nothing. You are who you are and that's how it's going to be." He reaches toward Daphne and gives her a kiss, then hands her his keys. "Just walk him around the driveway back to the front of the house and wait in the car, okay? Let me do this."  
  
Daphne nods and an instant later, we've gone down another set of steps and are walking up the concrete driveway that intersects with the main one leading us back to the house. And, fuck, it looks like my dancing has done nothing but get me in trouble.   
  
Well, at least some of it.


	34. Chapter 34

~ 34 ~  
  
_"I know that, Brian. I don't expect to have a great relationship with him. Hell, I'm not that dumb. But he's my father. I keep telling you that, but it means something so different to you than it does to me."_  
  
"So, I've been seeing him ever since," I say to Brian that morning as we sit in Dr. Parrack's office. I have to stop then because my mouth is so dry, and take a sip of water from the bottle I have clutched in my hands. Glancing over at the doctor, I see his warm smile and relax just a bit. After all, Brian might be mad— _will_ be mad—but he isn't going to kill me or anything. Besides, Parrack could always lunge across the desk and stop him if he tried. Yeah, I don't think it's funny, but at least I'm attempting to see the humor. "I tried to tell you at Babylon that night." I focus once again on Brian's immobile face. "But you got so mad and that made me … well, I guess I shouldn't blame you for what I failed to do."  
  
"What did you feel, Justin?" Parrack asks on cue.  
  
"Uh, concerned that Brian would … blow up?"  
  
"Since he'd done that before?"  
  
I nod, then lick my lips, and want more water. Brian was pissed when I told him I wanted to join his session with Parrack today. I only asked him last night and gave him the option of refusing even though the doctor was expecting us both, but I know damn well he hates being surprised. And I knew he'd be anxious even though he pretended like it was no big deal. When Brian's anxious, of course, he's angry.  
  
"And what else did you feel?" Parrack asks.  
  
Sometimes, I share Brian's opinion of therapists: they're a fuckin' pain in the ass. Like right now. I think that between Parrack and me, we've done quite enough to enflame and anger Brian, whom I expect will explode any second now. Why I have to detail my emotions is beyond me and it kind of feels like pouring gasoline on a roaring fire. "Guilty," I say in response to Parrack's question when the word pops into my head.  
  
"Because?"  
  
I clench my jaw. "Because I was lying to Brian and sneaking around behind his back."  
  
"No, you weren't," Brian says just then, and I hear the deep tone in his voice that tells me he's working hard to keep himself under control.  
  
"What do you mean? I was going out and meeting my dad while you—"  
  
"—knew exactly what you were doing." Brian's gaze meets mine. "At least, after Christmas I did." He pauses long enough to take a deep breath. "I found your recorder."  
  
"Oh, shit." I stare at him, taking in that bit of information. "By accident, right?" I know Brian doesn't snoop.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"So, you've known on some level for quite some time now." Parrack plays with one of his paper animals—a pig, I think—eyes on that rather than Brian. "How'd it make you feel?"  
  
"How the fuck do you think it made me feel?" Brian, who's dressed for work in a gorgeous brown Calvin Klein suit only he could wear to such a stunning effect, glares at Parrack. "The man's an asshole. Justin's better off without him."  
  
"In your opinion."  
  
"He fuckin' never came to the hospital when—"  
  
Parrack makes a motion toward me. "Please, would you talk to Justin?"  
  
Another glare. Brian looks over at me and, though I can see the anger simmering in his eyes, he takes it down a couple of notches. "You know how I feel. You can't fuckin' expect I'd think a few meetings with him would somehow _cure_ your relationship anymore than you'd cure being gay by spending time at a sports bar."  
  
Gnawing on my thumbnail, I don't speak immediately. "I know that, Brian. I don't expect to have a great relationship with him. Hell, I'm not that dumb. But he's my _father._ I keep telling you that, but it means something so different to you than it does to me."  
  
"Is that true, Brian?" Parrack asks.  
  
Brian's gaze remains fixed on me. "So what? You think your dad's all that different from mine just because he never smacked you around? You're living in fantasyland if you do, Justin, because he's done just as much damage except he didn't use his fists."  
  
For a moment, I can't breathe. That's Brian's biggest admission that his dad abused him. Usually, he won't talk about that shit no matter what I say or do. I want to react, but, fuck, I have more sense than that. He'd erupt if I offered even the tiniest bit of sympathy. So, taking a deep breath, I move on. "I know he's done a lot of damage and I don't expect to ever forget that. But I don't think it means we can't have some kind of relationship no matter how limited it might be."  
  
"You're naïve."  
  
"Maybe I am, but isn't it my choice to make?"  
  
Brian glowers. Since that's his mantra, he knows I have him on that one.  
  
"However …" Parrack leans forward in his chair and that always means he's about to say something insightful. "It has a significant effect on Brian since the two of you are—" Parrack looks at Brian and I think he's choosing his fights because the next instant he seems to backpedal. "—the two of you live in such close proximity. So, he has some rights here too."  
  
"That's why I wanted to tell you," I say to Brian. "I knew it'd have an effect on you, but I-I guess I was afraid. I'm sorry it took so long."   
  
Brian continues to look massively unhappy, but doesn't speak.  
  
Parrack studies him. "What's going on, Brian?" he says after a few minutes of heavy silence. "Talk to us."  
  
"What the hell do you want me to say?"  
  
"Oh, let's see." Parrack looks up at the ceiling like he's thinking. "How about that you have good reason for hating Justin's dad, who did everything except kill you … and maybe he would've done that if he'd had the chance."  
  
I open my mouth to protest. My dad may be many things, but he's not a killer. Then I see what Parrack is doing. He's trying to support Brian and, at the same time, get him to talk. So, I stay quiet. Besides, the shit Dad did to Brian ... it was _bad_.  
  
"He attacked you, twice. Fuck, he could've killed you when he rammed your car," Dr. Parrack continues. "He _literally_ kicked you when you were down. Oh, and he called you a child molester. If it were me, I'd want to take more than a poke at the guy; I'd want to stomp on him."  
  
Abruptly, Brian stands, his fists clenched as he stares at Parrack like he's going to take out his anger on _him_. Then he turns, avoiding my eyes as he goes behind the chairs to the window. I know he wants a cigarette and I wish he could have one. "You have no guarantee," he says after a few moments of this, his back to both of us. "No fuckin' guarantee that he won't turn on you at some point and go right back to being what he is—a homophobic asshole."  
  
"I know that. I haven't gotten all chummy with him for that very reason. I've been cautious and skeptical. I'm not as naïve as you think I am."  
  
Brian makes a derisive sound.  
  
"You don't believe that, Brian? Because Justin's so young? You think he doesn't have the experience you have so he's not seeing what you'd see?"  
  
"Of course he doesn't!" Brian throws out a hand, but doesn't turn. "How the fuck could he?"  
  
"You need to give me more credit," I tell him with a little heat. I hate the whole age thing that comes up all the time. It's like I lack common sense and my brain won't fully come online until I'm at least Brian's age, which is so unfair. "I told you. I've been very careful. I keep looking for the thing he's not saying, the _real_ reason he wants to be friends."  
  
"Of course, the other factor here, Brian, the one I'd like you to address while we still have time, is the guilt you feel."  
  
"Why should I fuckin' feel guilt? I'm not the one who—"  
  
"You're always guilty if your friends are hurt. We've discussed that. And you're especially protective of Justin since the bashing, which you blame yourself for, still, despite everything we've talked about. So, in addition to being angry at Justin for putting himself into a potentially dangerous situation, you're angry because if he _does_ get hurt, it'll be another thing you couldn't prevent, another thing that's somehow your fault."  
  
"Fuck!" Brian slams his hand against the wall.   
  
That's when I realize this isn't going to be as quick to resolve itself as I thought it'd be.  
***  
Everything goes well that night even though all day I predicted disaster. Poor Dad. He had to babysit me as I made my final inspection of every picture I'd hung on the walls of Three Rivers while I worried over every little fingerprint or smudge, while I judged almost every single photo to be an embarrassing cliché, trite, hackneyed, and not worthy of the paper it'd been printed on, while I worried that I was about to crash and burn. Yeah, I was doing my thing just like I always do, but Dad kept telling me it was fine, to just hang in there, that people were going to love what they'd see that night at the restaurant's official opening.  
  
Is it any wonder I love him the way I do?  
  
And he was right. Why is that? He so often is. His Honor, Mayor Deekins, was there along with enough politicians, sports heroes, and movie stars to, as Dad would say, choke a horse. They crowded into the place in their finest, glittery, beautiful, and eager to be seen in such a tony spot. Between the celebrities, the chamber music, the posh newness of the place, and the delicious aromas drifting from room to room, Marco made a very nice speech. When he thanked all the major players who helped him make the restaurant the beautiful reality it had become, my name was on the list. In fact, he mentioned me more than once because he did a couple of tours of Three Rivers for various news organizations, and they always asked about the photos. I felt a little giddy each time he said my name so clearly to the television audience. He called me a "gifted photographer with a great eye for beauty." _Me_.   
  
Right away, people started giving me their business cards. I've already talked to three people with projects they'd like to commission, and countless people who want to partner with me or hire me. Dizzy with the possibilities, I keep stuffing business cards in my pockets while I remind myself that, no matter what, I'll still have to get up on Monday morning and go to work. Mo Minnehan, who gave me a chance when he hired me at _The Pittsburgh Times_ , is here and he's feeling pretty good, too, telling people he knew all along how talented I was. I heard him bragging to one of the mayor's people that he knew I was a winner the minute he saw me. Must've been Brian's sweater.  
  
Speaking of my brother, he's here for the opening along with Justin, but neither of them appears to be happy. Justin keeps looking at Brian with little sideway glances like he hopes no one notices. They must've had a fight or something, but there's no chance to ask Brian. Not that he'd tell me, but sometimes he can give me information without meaning to and I can cobble together an answer. That's pretty much how we operate, but tonight he's grim and silent.   
  
I'd tried to call Brian that morning before Dad arrived at the airport, hoping for a little brotherly reassurance, but couldn't get him on his cell, which is rare since he always has it with him. When I asked him why tonight, he just gave me one of those lethal stares he works so hard to perfect and said nothing. Okay, so whatever it is, it happened this morning. Fuck, Brian can be such a challenge, but hell, he's the only brother I have so I just deal with it.  
  
Eventually, we decide to settle down at our designated table in the Sky View room with Brian, Justin, and Jennifer, and sample the Three Rivers cuisine. It's every bit as amazing as I thought it would be and I gorge myself on lobster thermidor, consuming more calories in that one meal than I've consumed in the last two weeks. Brian works on a steak, and Justin eats shrimp scampi, but both of them are unnaturally quiet. Dad, Jennifer, and I exchange looks, but no one says anything to them. Eventually, Brian leaves to smoke a cigarette. Shortly thereafter, Jennifer excuses herself, and I anticipate getting some information from Justin, who'll probably cough it up if we ask him. But, fuck, we don't get a chance because _he_ gets up with a murmured excuse, and takes off in the same direction as Brian.  
  
"Whatever it is, it isn't resolved," Dad says, cocking an eyebrow at me as he sips his coffee. "Those two are in the middle of it."  
  
He's right, but I don't know what we can do about it. Dad and I don't say anything more, but, as it turns out, we don't have to wait long. Jennifer returns, looking disturbed. "They're outside in the parking lot, arguing, and it isn't pretty," she says, and I see the concern in her eyes.  
  
Dad and I stand up.  
  
Outside, the weather is mild, the moon a pale white orb, a soft breeze rustling the leaves and throwing shadows everywhere. There's a lot of loud music and noise going on in and around the restaurant, but Brian and Justin have managed to overcome that difficulty and are doing a great job screaming at each other so we have no trouble finding them.  
  
"I told you, didn't I?" Justin tells Brian at the top of his lungs. "Give me a little fucking credit, please! I know it took me awhile, but at least I came clean!"  
  
"He's a fuckin' homophobe! What part of that don't you get?" Brian yells back, his voice rising with incredulity. "You keep talking about wanting your _father_ in your life, but he's not that person anymore, the one who played baseball with you when you were a little boy. Why the fuck don't you get that?"  
  
Still a few feet away, Dad, and I stop, listening to this dialogue as the pieces fall into place. So, Justin's been seeing his dad behind Brian's back? And now Brian knows? Fuck. Not good. The guy practically killed Brian. What was Justin thinking?  
  
"Brian, I understand that our relationship has changed, that he and I can never be the father and son we were at one time, but—"  
  
"—that's fine? Oh, that's not a problem! And if he fails to show up at another crucial moment in your life, that's fine too, I suppose? You'll just fuckin' forgive him for—"  
  
"How is that any different than forgiving you?" Justin cuts Brian off, his frustration rising along with his voice. "I didn't know you showed up after the bashing for a long time and, by the time I did, I'd made peace with that. Why is this so different? You're both important to me so—"  
  
Brian jabs a finger at Justin. "Don't you fuckin' dare put me in the same category as that son of a bitch!"  
  
"I wasn't going to do that! Stop shouting at me!"  
  
"It's the only way I can get through to you!"  
  
"Parrack told you to not focus on anger, but that's exactly what you're doing."  
  
"To hell with Parrack and his asinine touchy-feely answers to me and my neuroses. I'll fuckin' do what I want when I want!"  
  
"That's what got us in trouble in the first place, Brian. Don't you get that?" Justin holds out both hands in entreaty. "I was afraid to tell you about my dad so I just kept it a secret. Then when I got up the nerve to tell you that night at Babylon, you practically took off my head!"  
  
Brian twists his head right to left, a sneer on his face. "Oh, that works well, Justin. I like it! Blame _me_ for everything. That way you don't have to take any responsibility."  
  
Justin opens his mouth to reply, but right then the parent in Dad takes over. He steps closer and puts a hand on Justin's shoulder. "If you don't mind, I'd like to call a timeout right about now."  
  
Brian, I've noticed, never challenges Dad or treats him with anything other than respect. I'm not sure why. Maybe he likes Dad, although, if I were going to be psychological about it, I'd say that somewhere in Brian, he looks upon Dad as the good father he might have had if Joan Kinney had given Brian to the Connelly's instead of me. So, I'm not surprised when Brian flings out a hand in a _whatever_ gesture, and turns his back.  
  
"I'm sorry, Sean," Justin says, the pink color in his cheeks. "We shouldn't be fighting on a night that's so special for Brendan."  
  
"I doubt that anything could deflate Brendan's good mood," Dad says with a chuckle.  
  
I smile. "True, but … is there anything we can do? This is hard to watch."  
  
"Indeed," Dad says and focuses on Brian. "Have you two tried understanding each other's position? Whenever I fight with someone, I find that helps."  
  
"I know his fuckin' position," Brian jerks around, waving a disdainful hand Justin's way. "He wants his daddy back and thinks the world will come to a fuckin' end if he doesn't get him. And now I'm once again cast in the role of the bad guy because I have some legitimate concerns that—"  
  
"I told you, I know I can't go back to the old version of my father! Why in hell can't you hear that?"  
  
"So, why would Justin want his father back, Brian? You're a smart man, you—"  
  
"Sean, I understand the whole family thing. It's been stuffed down my throat all day. So, please, don't go there!"  
  
"You _do_ understand that family thing. I know you do, Brian." Dad's pitch has dropped as if he wants to make sure Brian grasps his sincerity. "Look how you and Brendan managed to get past your difficulties. You did that because it meant something to you, something important. Perhaps Justin feels the same way."  
  
Brian stares, saying nothing.  
  
"Fuck it!" Justin looks even more pissed. "I've been trying to get just one little concession on that point all day long, but, no, it's just not happening. The world revolves around you and your viewpoint. Anyone else might as well not even exist! I'm so fuckin' sick of that!" With a sudden exhale, Justin turns his back on all of us and walks away.  
  
I start to go after him, but Dad stops me with a hand on the arm. He shakes his head when I look at him, surprised.  
  
"Brian?" Dad says, turning back to him. "Would I be correct in assuming you think Justin is a fool for wanting anything to do with a father who's hurt him as well as you?"  
  
Brian shrugs, digging out a cigarette from his jacket pocket and lighting it. He passes them to me when I hold out my hand. "Let's just say that someone who scored so high on his SATs really ought to be smarter than that."  
  
Dad dares to go a little closer. "Were _you_ that smart about your father when you were Justin's age?"  
  
Damn. I watch as Brian presses his lips together, eyes on the ground as he smokes. I know his dad was a bastard in many ways, so it's an interesting question. Taking a deep drag on my own cigarette, I ponder that. What was Brian like at eighteen? Could he stand up to his father? Was he resigned to the fact that Jack never wanted him? Or was he as angry then as he is now?   
  
"No," Brian says after thinking about it. "I was still … a kid. I bought that shit about children needing their parents."  
  
"You hadn't had time to process it the way you have by now?" Dad asks, and he's so good at this he doesn't sound patronizing or even remotely sarcastic.  
  
"No." Brian looks at Dad and I see a mixture of suppressed anger and respect in his eyes. "Point taken."  
  
"I get your point too, Brian, and it's a legitimate one. This man has proven himself dangerous. If it were just you in danger, you'd deal with it, I'm sure. You don't strike me at all as cowardly. But it's Justin you're worried about, Justin who might be in danger from Mr. Taylor's wild fluctuations. And that, it seems to me, is very legitimate."  
  
Brian takes one last drag on his cigarette, and then flicks it onto the ground. "You want me to be the adult."  
  
"I'm afraid so. I know it's not fair, but few things in life are. You're older and wiser whether you want to admit it or not. I realize that puts you in a terrible position with this thing since taking care of Justin might mean not protecting him from this bastard, but you … I'm afraid it's a line you'll have to walk."  
  
"A line parents walk?"  
  
"With older children, yes. You give your advice, but you let them make their mistakes." Dad puffs out air. "It can be miserable."  
  
"Hey, I never caused you that kind of trouble." I can't help myself. I have to protest.  
  
"Oh, there were a few times you did—all kids do. The point is, Justin has to go down this path on his own and see where it leads, even if it kills you, Brian. Otherwise, he'll wonder all his life if things could've been different between himself and his father."  
  
Brian studies Dad's face and appears to take in every single word. With thumb and forefinger, he pinches the bridge of his nose. "Thanks," he says on an exhale, and moves around us both, heading back to the restaurant.  
  
Watching him, I clasp Dad on the shoulder. "You're amazing," I say as I give him a little squeeze.  
  
Dad smiles. "Sometimes."  
***  
Inside the restaurant, I walk from room to room, looking for Justin. I'm still angry about everything that's happened, but between Sean and Dr. Parrack, I feel like I've been slapped back into line. Fuck, what was I thinking back when I let Justin hang around me? That I wouldn't end up in this position, part lover, part guidance counselor? How stupid could I be? Of course, I'd end up here. He's twelve years younger than me. He's a _teenager_! And even though I've failed him once already, I still feel the same thing every fuckin' time he might be in danger: I want to protect him. I know Craig Taylor is out to do no good. I don't care if he's piling wads of cash onto Justin. Even if he's having him over for dinner every night, he's a bastard and that aspect of his charming personality will come out sooner or later. I can't prove it, can I? That's the problem.  
  
Justin doesn't seem to be anywhere. He didn't go back to our table where Jennifer is talking to some woman in a god awful blue evening gown. He's not in any of the other rooms either. Where the fuck is he? I retrace my steps, checking each place I pass with more care until I'm close to the restaurant's entrance once more. I notice the door to one of the smaller banquet rooms is halfway open and peek inside. That's when I see Justin. With Marco.  
  
Marco is well-known among certain elements of the gay community. He skulks around looking for chicken, but he always makes sure whoever he finds is legal, although, given certain things he's said, I have the impression he wishes otherwise. Not that he's into children, but he'd just like his boys a little younger. No one says anything about his tastes, of course, because the guy's so famous, but I've always thought his interest in innocent-looking boys was a little creepy. Now, here he is in the banquet room, standing near the windows that look out over the three rivers below, and Justin is semi-blocked in front of him.   
  
Fuck.  
  
So, is this one of those times when I let Justin deal with things by himself as part of his making-his-own-mistakes thing? Or do I go in there and punch Marco in the nose? Last time I did that, though, I ran into a whole hell of a lot of trouble, so maybe I need to look for a third alternative? Shit, I've been angry with the kid all day and I'm fuckin' tired of the whole thing. A lot of what he's saying is true. I know that even if I won't admit it. At least he _told_ me the truth and I know that took balls. And trying to repair the fractured relationship with his dad ... that takes balls too. I should know. It's something I barely attempted to do when Jack was dying. I was a hell of a lot older than Justin when that happened and even then, if it hadn't been for Debbie, I doubt I would've done anything.   
  
Fuck.  
  
Inhaling, I advance on them.  
  
"Hey," Justin says when he catches sight of me.  
  
Marco turns, quickly covering his disappointment when he sees me. "Oh, hi, Brian."  
  
"Great first night, Marco." I'm speaking pleasantly as I move close to Justin and lay an arm around his shoulders. "You should be proud."  
  
He sees the possessive gesture and gives me a brief smile. "Justin was telling me what an amazing photographer your brother is. Not that I needed convincing. He did such a great job. Did you hear? The Steelers are redoing their website and they want him to handle the photography."  
  
I rub Justin's arm. "He'll be forever grateful that you gave him the opportunity."  
  
"Yeah, well, he certainly deserved it."  
  
A moment's silence follows that remark, then Marco, giving Justin a wistful look, takes his leave.  
  
As soon as he's out the door, Justin turns into me and throws his arms around my neck, hugging me hard.  
  
"Did he …?"  
  
"No. He was just getting warmed up when you walked in."  
  
"Then why're you hugging me?"  
  
"Why do you think, you big, clueless hunk? Because you came in here when you saw me with him and did your alpha male thing." He kisses me on the cheek, then moves to my mouth and kisses me so hard _my_ toes curl. "Maybe you don't hate me quite as much as I thought you did."  
  
I hold him close, loving his warm smell, the snug way he fits into my arms, the little kisses he's layering along my jaw-line. "I never hated you. Give me a break."  
  
"You've been yelling at me all day."  
  
"I've been at work all day. You're being a drama queen."  
  
"Yeah, like you never get into that shit."  
  
"I just want to strangle you sometimes when you—"  
  
"—behave like a bratty kid?"  
  
I clamp my mouth over his and work on shutting him up. With Justin, nothing does the trick quite as well as sex. "You're bratty all right," I say in a voice that's gone gruff. "And you're going to kill me one of these days."  
  
"If you didn't love me so much, you wouldn't worry." Staring up at me, the look in Justin's eyes is soft and yielding. "I'm sorry, Brian, for not telling you about my father. I feel terrible."  
  
I reach down and swat him on the rear. "Yeah, I think you may have to suffer because of that."  
  
"In case you've never caught on, being spanked and fucked by you isn't exactly suffering."  
  
"Then how about if I do neither?"  
  
He looks horrified. "You wouldn't!"  
  
"If I wanted to make an effective point, I would. After all, they say any punishment has to really hurt to be successful."  
  
Justin gives me his best pout as he plasters his body against mine. "But I've been punished all day. It's time to be nice to me."  
  
"I see. And how would you like me to do that?"  
  
Justin shifts his eyes toward the door. "Well, if you really mean it, you could close that door and blow me right here."  
  
"I could, could I?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"And that would make you feel better?"  
  
"You have no idea."  
  
I stick my tongue in my cheek and give him a long, appraising look.  
  
Then I walk toward the door.


	35. Chapter 35

~ 35 ~   
  
_Oh, God. This sounds worse and worse. I'm not sure it has anything to do with Mom, but whatever it is, it sounds like true confessions time and isn't that always bad?_  
  
It's right around noon the day after Brendan's triumphant opening at Three Rivers that my downstairs buzzer starts going crazy like a twelve-year-old is jabbing it with maniacal glee. Justin and I are dressing and have to leave soon because last night Sean invited us to a celebratory brunch downtown at the Corkwood Restaurant, near his hotel. Normally, I wouldn't be caught dead at such a function, but it's for Brendan, and I discovered being a good older brother requires a certain amount of lesbionic behavior. Shit, the way things are going, Brendan will be supporting _me_ soon so I better mind my manners or he won't invite me to the ceremony at the Oval Office … the one when he's made official photographer for the president. "What?" I growl into the intercom after I punch the button. "Are you fuckin' trying to break it?"  
  
"Brian, let me in," someone whispers so softly I can barely hear him.  
  
"Let _who_ in?"  
  
"Brian, it's me."  
  
" _Brendan_?" I say when I realize whom I'm talking to. "Why the fuck are you whispering?"  
  
"Is Justin there?"  
  
"Justin _lives_ here, remember?"  
  
"Just buzz me up, okay? And don't tell Justin."  
  
Maybe Brendan never stopped drinking champagne? I don't think he has the same tolerance for alcohol I have so if he's staggering around town drunk at this hour I'll be having a word with him … several of them.  
  
Rolling open the loft door, I step into the hall just in time to face Brendan, who must've taken the steps two at a time. "Shut the door," he hisses like a spy in a James Bond thriller, and closes it himself.  
  
"What the fuck is wrong with you?"  
  
"Brian, we've got a situation." Brendan looks right and left, eyes darting everywhere. "I talked to Dad at his hotel this morning."  
  
"That's terrible!" I draw back from him in mock horror, clamping a hand over my mouth hard enough to make a popping sound. "How could such a thing happen?"  
  
He smacks me on the upper arm. "Shut up and listen! I talked to Dad and … Jennifer was there."  
  
"So?"  
  
He leans forward, right in my face, his expression grave. "Brian, she spent the night—Dad all-but-told me that. She fuckin' spent the night with Dad!"  
  
I bark out a laugh. "Sean, you dog, you! Way to go!" Scrutinizing Brendan, I frown. "If you're about to tell me you're outraged, just be warned, little brother, I'll be immediately slapping some sense into you. You're thirty-one and—"  
  
"No! Not _me_ , Brian. I came to terms with Dad seeing other women after my mom died a long time ago. He's entitled to a life; I know that. It's _Justin_ I'm worried about."  
  
"Oh, fuck, he won't mind." Justin's finishing up his shower, but I still look behind like he might jump out at us. "After what he did, coming down to Liberty and picking me up? I mean, he's one to talk."  
  
Brendan cocks an eyebrow. "Someone's in a good mood. I believe you picked _him_ up and, besides, think about how you'd feel if you heard your mother was having sex with someone other than your father."  
  
The thought is traumatic enough to make me want to puke, but I somehow manage to shake it off. "Justin's a big boy. He's been in the backroom and seen all kinds of kinky shit. I don't think hetero sex will be all that shocking to him. Besides, he likes Sean a lot. Why wouldn't he be happy if they have that kind of relationship?"  
  
"Because it's his _mother_."  
  
"Fuck, Brendan, it's not like your dad jumped on her first thing. I was wondering when he'd get around to it. I mean, how many times has he been in town since he met her at Christmas? Every little thing that happens with you, every meeting, or convention, any excuse he can find, he's here. You told me they talk all the time. Shit, they've probably been having phone sex and figured it was about time they did the real thing."  
  
Brendan rolls his eyes. "Brian, _I_ had trouble when my dad admitted to a sexual relationship with a woman, and I was well into my twenties. Justin is a teenager and his family has been all messed up. Didn't you tell me he blamed himself for that, because of his coming out? I don't think he's not going to be happy about—"  
  
The loft door slides back and Justin is standing there, staring at both of us with a puzzled expression. "Why're you standing out here talking?" He looks from me to Brendan. "And who's not going to be happy about something?"  
  
Brendan looks alarmed, but I get a good grip on his bony shoulders and push him inside. "I'll let Uncle Brendan explain it to you, Sunshine," I pat his cheek before I walk past him to where I left my coffee on the counter. Picking up the cup, I seat myself on a stool, ready to watch Brendan squirm.  
  
Justin looks expectantly at Brendan. "What's up?"  
  
"Uh, well, you see …"  
  
"Am _I_ the one who's not going to be happy?" Justin's slow this morning because we were up so late last night fucking … just like his mother. I set my coffee aside and rub my mouth to keep from grinning.  
  
"No, uh, certainly not. I was just, uh … well, I called my dad this morning and—"  
  
Justin looks at me, but I give him a blank stare. "That was so amazing last night, at Three Rivers. I'll bet your dad's so proud of you."  
  
"Yeah, he is, but you see, the thing is …" Brendan throws me a beseeching look when Justin glances away momentarily, but I'm not bailing him out of this one. After all, it's _his_ father, the over-sixty Casanova named Sean Connelly, who put the moves on Ms. Jennifer Taylor, so either he has to 'fess up to Justin or the kid's going to hear it from the parents. And _that_ would be ghastly. It might even do irreparable harm to his young psyche. "I … Justin there's something I need to tell you," Brendan continues, "something you may not like hearing, but something that's just, well, it's part of being a grown up."   
  
"What? Tell me!" Justin looks alarmed.  
  
"Well, you see, the thing is, sometime things happen, things that are hard for us to accept at first, but things that—"  
  
"Oh, fuck, Brendan." I slide off the stool and come to where they're standing. "Justin? Your mom slept with Sean."  
  
Justin's face goes blank. He stares at me like I'm speaking Greek. Then he looks at Brendan.  
  
"I'm sorry, Justin. I mean, I'm not sorry because I think your mom's terrific, but I know—"  
  
"How do you know what they did?"   
  
"I just … well, she was there this morning when I called and—"  
  
"Did your father tell you they'd … done that?"  
  
"Oh, no, of course not!"  
  
"Then you're guessing."  
  
Brendan looks uncomfortable. "Uh, no. I could tell by the tone of his voice. He sounded, happy and embarrassed and a little apprehensive and—"  
  
"But he didn't _say_ that to you?"  
  
"Justin, Justin." I cross my arms over my chest, both eyebrows rising. "Remember what you always tell me? 'Denial ain't a river in Egypt'?"  
  
"This isn't funny, Brian!"  
  
"Brian, maybe it would be best if you—"  
  
"Oh, come on, you two!" I interject in an outraged voice. "You're practically related. This isn't the time to go weak in the knees and get all girly. Your parents have, uh, united. You should too."  
  
"This is a little more complicated than that!" Brendan rakes a hand through his hair as he looks from me to Justin. "My father is a gentleman, Justin. He'd never go around bragging about a conquest. He has the utmost respect for your mother—I think you know that. They've become good friends and he treasures that. He's always talking about Jennifer. But I also know my father really well. When I heard Jennifer's voice in the background and, like a fool, asked why she was there so early in the day, he told me without telling me." Brendan lowers his eyes and presses his lips together, fresh color in his cheeks. "I-I thought it would be better if I told you."  
  
Justin's hands are balled into fists as he stares at Brendan. "My mother isn't—" His mouth flattens to a grim, straight line. "She'd never—"  
  
"Come on!" I'm having a hard time understanding all the drama. I mean, what the fuck? People are sexual creatures. They express that sexuality with one another. Even middle-aged-though-definitely-hot WASP moms like Jennifer have been known to jump into the sack with the right man. Sean is virile, good-looking, intelligent, and kind. Dr. Parrack would probably say he's good for her. What could be wrong with them sharing something like that? It's as fuckin' natural as birds building nests or leaves falling from trees. "Your mother had _you,_ didn't she? And your sister. So she obviously understands the concept." I turn away from them and head for the bedroom hoping they'll get the fuck over themselves. "We need to get to the restaurant."   
  
Justin is right behind me. "I'm not going," he says while I'm pulling my boots out of the closet.  
  
"Don't be a wuss."  
  
" _I'm not going_."  
  
Brendan is on the stairs. "Justin, I'm sorry if this is upsetting to you, but I think it'd be better if you—"  
  
"Get your shoes," I tell him with a little shake of my head. "You're really not going to do this, right?"  
  
"I need a moment. Do you both get that?" Justin looks from me to Brendan and back. "This is my _mother_ and I'm entitled to a little space while I figure this out." He sounds strong, but looking straight into his eyes, I see this has hit him hard, and suddenly, it's not so funny. Damn, I never get my roles straight.  
  
"Fair enough." As I take a step toward Justin, I give Brendan a warning look. My arms encircle Justin and I give him a brief hug, kissing his forehead. "I'll tell them you're under the weather," I whisper at his ear.   
  
"I know it's silly, but—"  
  
"Fuck, don't apologize. Do what you need to do, okay?" He gets a second hug before I release him and step back.   
  
An instant later, Brendan and I head for the door.  
  
***  
After Brian and Brendan leave, an intense wave of shame washes over me. Shit, could I prove anymore clearly that I'm a kid having a kid's reaction? Kicking my shoes where I left them by the bed, I slam down the stairs and into the kitchen, yanking open the refrigerator. Why am I so upset? It's not like I believe Mom should stay celibate for the rest of her life. Brian's right. She's a grown woman who was having sex long before I was born. I grab the orange juice, close the fridge, then get a glass, a shudder going through me at that thought. _Breathe, just breathe._ Mom having sex is not a bad thing and not the end of the world. Besides, I like Sean—I always have. He's a good father, even to Brian who doesn't know it, and he's a hell of a nice man. So, I don't have a leg to stand on in this thing and my reaction is just plain silly. Pouring juice, I shove the carton back in the refrigerator. And now Mom will figure out why I didn't come to the brunch and get upset—way to go, dumb-fuck.  
  
In the living room, I sit on the couch and ponder the whole thing, trying to be cool and logical. The day after I was with Brian the first time, Mom knew something was up. She told me later she found Brian's thong … the ones I stole. She had to not only deal with her kid, her _baby_ , having sex, but having a different kind of sex. That could not have been easy, but she hung in there and educated herself along the way. Maybe she felt uncomfortable, but she kept most of that from me. Now here I am facing the same thing and it looks like the least I could do is return the favor.   
  
I take a long drink of the tart juice and manage to feel ashamed of myself all over again. Okay, if she's going to have sex with someone, Sean is an ideal pick. I need to be mature, acknowledge that, and move on. I've got a little cash. If I call a cab, I should be able to get down to Corkwood about twenty minutes behind Brian and Brendan. I can wing it from there. Maybe I'll confess my childish reaction, but maybe I won't because that could be embarrassing to both of them. Brian and Brendan won't say anything, that's for sure, so there's still time to fix this before it becomes a big, stupid problem. I've had enough of _those_ to last a lifetime.  
  
Jumping up off the couch, I find my shoes and shove my feet into them, lacing the ties. Then I grab my wallet. That's when my cell phone rings. Oh, fuck, are _they_ calling me? I know Brian drives like a maniac, but I still didn't think he'd make it to the restaurant this soon. I dig it out of my pants pocket and flip it open. "Hello?"  
  
"Hi, Justin."  
  
Oh, fuck. It's Dad. "Hi."  
  
"Hey, listen, I know it's last minute, but is there any chance you could come over here for lunch?"  
  
_He found out._ That's my immediate thought. Somehow, he knows about Mom and Sean and now he's going to … what? Behave like the outraged husband? He can hardly do that anymore. Pump me for information? But, fuck, why? He's never expressed interest in getting back together with Mom and he's moved on too, with Lori. "Uh, well, is there … how come you want to do it today?"   
  
"It would be … I think we ought to talk."   
  
I hear a strange note in his voice that I can't place. Uneasiness? Irritation? "Is something wrong?"  
  
"No, no—nothing's wrong. I'd just like … I think it'd be good if I told you more of what's going on with me right now. You know, share things the way you're always asking me to do."  
  
Oh, God. This sounds worse and worse. I'm not sure it has anything to do with Mom, but whatever it is, it sounds like true confessions time and isn't that always bad? "Okay, I guess I could do that," I say, although it's the very last thing I want to do. I'd rather go watch Sean make goo-goo eyes at Mom. Funny how things can change. Although, what if Dad tells me something like he's in love with Mom and wants to get her back? Maybe Lori's been packed up and booted out of his place. Maybe Dad thinks he's "come to his senses." Oh, fuck. I need to rein in my imagination until we've actually talked. "Let me just call a cab and—"  
  
"You want me to—?"  
  
"No, that's all right." Last thing I want right now is a long, awkward silence in the car as we drive back to his condo. "I'll be there in fifteen or twenty minutes."  
  
"Okay, great." He tries to sound chipper, but it sounds strained. "Tuna okay for you?"  
  
"Sounds fine." After more phony cheerfulness, we hang up.   
  
Shit, now I'm _really_ freaking out.  
***  
At Dad's, I find everything laid out on the oak pedestal table in the kitchen. It's obvious Lori's been at work, although she's nowhere to be found. At least the come-to-his-senses scenario seems to out as a possible clue since she'd hardly do all this work if he'd kicked her to the curb, so that's a good sign. We have sandwiches, potato chips, a plate neatly arranged with carrots, celery, and green pepper strips along with some kind of dip. And drinks. We also have ambience. There's soft jazz music playing and the smell of recently baked cookies drifting in the air. Someone's gone to a lot of trouble to make this pleasant.  
  
Hand wrapped around an icy can of Coke, I make a pretense of eating as I study Dad. I don't like what I see. The worry lines around his eyes seem magnified, his frown deeper. He's been so cheerful the many times I've been with him these last few months, it's hard to remember this deeply worried side of him I always saw as a kid when he was upset about something. Taking another drink, the sweet liquid slides down my throat as I wonder again what the hell this is all about. Is he really upset about Mom and Sean? Somehow, I think that's a stretch of my overactive imagination. If he was upset about Mom sleeping with Sean, he'd be angrier, screaming at me the minute I walked through the door. That's not what I'm seeing.  
  
"Uh, do you remember Uncle Charles?" he asks, fiddling with a carrot stick even though he hasn't eaten anything.  
  
We're going to discuss his side of the family? Shit, I could be eating a patty melt at Corkwood. Instead, I'm having tuna sandwiches with my Dad while we discuss dear old Uncle Charles who must be a million years old by now. "Sure."  
  
Dad takes a tentative sip of his water. "Well, maybe you remember the story about him and my dad making me CEO of TASI?"  
  
I don't know how I could ever forget that story since it's been part of my family's history for a long time. My grandfather, Russell, died about fourteen or fifteen years ago. I was just a little kid and Molly wasn't even born. Granddad always promised my dad, his oldest son, that he would take over Taylor Aviation Systems International one day, but that changed when he found himself unexpectedly ill and facing death at the "young" age of sixty. Dad was thirty at the time of Grandfather Russell's death, and that was deemed too young by my granddad and his younger brother, Uncle Charles. Too young to take over a multi-million dollar aviation company doing so well it'd grown to six locations and contracts with many of the major aerospace companies. So, before Granddad died, they decided that _Charles_ would take over the business and run it for the next ten years. By then, the reasoning, went, Dad would be mature enough to take the leadership role and not bring the company down with his inexperienced fumbling. Nice, I always thought. They had such confidence in him.  
  
"Well, you know he's going to be seventy soon."  
  
I turn a potato chip in my hand before popping it into my mouth. Of course, the problem was, when Dad reached forty, good ole Uncle Charles didn't want to turn over the key to the executive washroom and let Dad take over. He was happy in the CEO spot. You know, "Absolute power corrupts absolutely"? From all accounts, Uncle Charles ruled with an iron fist and achieved success that way, a success that must've been like alcohol or drugs would be for someone else since he seemed addicted to it. So, with one trumped up excuse after another, he kept putting off his retirement party year after year … to my dad's detriment. "Yeah, that's true, isn't it? When's his birthday? Sometime this month, right?" I don't follow nasty old Uncle Charles or his birthday. I think what he did to Dad was lousy. He's a first-class bastard for withholding what should, by rights, belong to my father, but as far as I know, he still has all the power and can pretty much do what he wants. It was one of my first lessons about how unfair life can be.  
  
"His birthday is on the twenty-eighth and he's having a big blowout. I think Aunt Myra invited half of Michigan."  
  
The Taylor family comes from Lansing. Dad moved to Pittsburgh nearly twenty years ago with Mom when it was decided TASI needed a branch office here—one Dad successfully founded and helped grow. "Well, good for him." I take a tiny bite of my sandwich, more depressed by the minute. What the hell is this all about and why did Dad ask me to come over? It can't really be about Uncle Charles, can it?  
  
It can.  
  
"The thing is … "His chair scrapes against the floor as Dad pushes back from the table and stands up. He goes to the fridge and gets more water even though his current bottle is still half full. "Uh, the thing is, Justin, he's saying he'll finally turn the company over to me."  
  
"That's great. Did the board of directors get on him?"  
  
"No." Dad doesn't turn from his intense concentration on the refrigerator. "He told me … last year he—" He twists around and gives me a look that's all worry and, fuck, do I see something like pleading in his eyes? Pleading for what? Shit, I must be hallucinating. "You have to understand," he says, his voice strained. "It started out one way, but it quickly became something else. I swear to you, Justin—it became _real_ to me, very real, it became something I wanted, something I truly felt. It hasn't been a lie for a long time, although …"  
  
I push aside my own plate as my heart begins to beat faster. "What hasn't been a lie?"  
  
Dad sets the water down on the countertop with a plonk, and then combs a hand through his hair. "The thing is … Uncle Charles is very old-fashioned. You know that. He has the kind of beliefs most men his age have. And on top of that, he's a fundamentalist. He's believes all that crap in the Bible."  
  
"Crap you don't believe?"  
  
"No, of course not."  
  
I watch as Dad crosses from the refrigerator to the stove and back again, pacing. "Every year—every fucking year—he'd say he was going to hand everything over to me, and then, as you know, he wouldn't. There was always something he could point to that he said 'gave him pause.'" He hooks some fingers in the air, making quote marks, and looks disgusted. "But last year, well, we had a banner year. Profits were way up, especially here on the east coast, and there wasn't anything he could pin on me that would _give him pause_. At least, that's what I thought."  
  
This becomes more bizarre by the second. "But there was?"  
  
Dad comes to his chair, gripping the back of it, his eyes fixed on me. "Yeah, there was. You."  
  
"Me?"  
  
"He heard about the bashing and it was—according to him—the last straw." Dad takes a deep breath like he knows he'll need lots of air. "He has this idea that a man, a _real_ man, ought to be able to control all his family members and keep his house in order. I'm not exactly sure where that comes from, but it's in the Bible. He was already furious about my divorce since it proved to him I couldn't control myself or Jennifer, but he was willing to overlook that since divorce is so common nowadays."  
  
I am rigid by now, my own breathing quick and shallow. "And now me? He believes you can't control me? Not only am I gay, I'm the fucked up gay who-who got bashed?"  
  
Dad leans forward on the chair and again, I imagine I see an anguished plea in his eyes. "He … Justin he told me that unless I could bring you to his seventieth birthday party looking, as he put it, 'suitable and settled down,' he would not only refuse to turn over the company to me, he'd see to it that I lost the position I now have, that I'd be considered persona non gratis in the Taylor clan forever." His gaze drops to the table. "It wasn't … it isn't an idle threat as I'm sure you realize."  
  
It takes me a minute to understand what he's saying underneath the dry facts he's laid out. All I can think is what a dickhead that old bastard is. Someone should've bashed _him_ , although, bad as he is, I wouldn't wish that on anyone except, maybe, Chris Hobbs. Still, how can he treat a member of his flesh and blood that way? How can he manipulate him and try to get what he wants by any means possible? That's reprehensible and can only—  
  
Then the truth slams into me and it's so terrible, so filled with revolting possibilities, so mind-numbingly horrible it takes my breath away. I can't look at Dad, can't think, can't react. I'm frozen, thoughts inching across the icy landscape of my mind like wounded animals drawing their last breath. "You … all this time, you … this was what you wanted from me."   
  
"I'm so sorry, Justin. I wanted to tell you for a long time. Months ago. I knew the longer I waited the harder it'd be for you to believe that I sincerely—"  
  
"You did it all because Uncle Charles wants you to produce a straight boy at his seventieth birthday party?" I say in a voice that's disbelieving, raspy, and raw with suppressed emotion. "All this time, the talks and the meals and the-the bullshit about having a relationship, it-it all comes down to _that_ , doesn't it? That's what you're telling me, that this is all about you and your plan to save your fuckin' job, to get what you want, for _your_ ego, for _your_ glorification!"  
  
"No, it's not for me and it's not to hurt you either, although I know it has. It's for your mother, for Molly, for _you_." The plea is strong now, Dad's face a crumpled mess. "I'm way over-extended already. You want to know about my fuckin' ego? I did a bunch of stupid things financially after the divorce when I was trying to save face, to look like a big man. I spent too much money on lawyers and a condo I couldn't afford. If I lose my job, a lot of things are going to go with me including Molly's private school, your college tuition, and health care costs, the extra money I give your mother above and beyond the child support and alimony." He waves a hand in a futile gesture. "Hell, I'll probably have to take it all back to court and plead with the judge to lower the amounts!" With a grimace, he pauses, then goes on, looking like a man spitting out bitter words. "I don't know, at my age, if I'd be able to get another job making the money I now make. I'm sure I won't get any kind of great recommendation from TASI, not if Uncle Charles has anything to say about it. Justin, you have to believe me, I'd be ruined!"  
  
_I need to get the fuck out of here_! That's my immediate thought. But, shit, I'm shaking so hard, I'm not sure my legs will support me. "You bastard! You had an agenda all along and didn't have the balls to tell me."  
  
"No!" He comes around the table and looks down at me with a frightening intensity. "Maybe in the very beginning. I'll give you that. Maybe then I was looking at it as a-a necessary thing to do, a way to somehow influence you to do this thing for me, for all of us, but that changed, Justin, it changed the more I was with you, the more we talked. Even though I still believed you needed to do this thing because of the family—"  
  
"Don't put the fate of the family on my shoulders!" I jump to my feet to face him. " _You_ did this! Not me! I was the one unjustly targeted because I didn't live up to someone's fucked up idea of manhood. And now you're telling me Uncle Charles blames me for that too!"  
  
"In the beginning, I didn't understand that, but now I do. I know you were the victim."  
  
"And yet you fucking want me to go to Lansing with you and pretend to be straight?"  
  
"No, he never said that and I made sure that wasn't what he meant. He'd be happy if you were more …" Dad averts his gaze, " … closeted."  
  
"So, pretend to be straight." I'm barely able to drag air into my lungs. "All this time, everything you've done—it's all so I'll _pretend_ to be straight, so I'll dress in a conservative suit and not hold my hand with my wrist bent or swish my hips—"  
  
"You're not like that!" Dad cries in vehement protest. "I know you not!"  
  
"So I'll fuckin' put on an act for you and-and save the whole entire fucking family?" The pain is so great I'm surprised it doesn't rip me apart. I need to scream or punch him or do _something_. Instead, I shove it all down, I maintain control, I keep it together somehow because I fuckin' cannot let him see how much he's hurt me. Can't. Just fuckin' can't. "That's _all_ you ever wanted from me?"  
  
"No, it's not! Justin, listen to me, please." He follows me as I back away. "I should've told you sooner. I realize that. But like I said, my feelings, my words to you, it all became, over the months, it all became very real to me. It changed me and I—"  
  
"It changed you and yet the only thing you want from me right now is to go to Uncle Charles's fuckin' birthday party in less than two fucking weeks, right?"  
  
"I'll admit I'm desperate, but—"  
  
"Right?" I demand, my voice rising above his.  
  
He looks at me, the sadness in his face unmistakable, although I fuckin' could care less about anything he's feeling. "Right," he echoes.  
  
I lean toward him, my finger in his face. "Fuck. You," I say in a shaky, hoarse whisper. "Fuck you now and forever. This is the end, Dad. The fuckin' end between you and me!" Then, before he can say another word, I turn on my heel and walk out the condo door, slamming it behind me as hard as I can.  
  
Tears in my eyes, I stagger down the street.  
  
I have no idea where I'm going.


	36. Chapter 36

~ 36 ~  
  
_Okay, I'm behaving like he behaves and I don't like that at all. Nor do I know why I should even be concerned. There've been plenty of times he's been out late with friends or because of school, and I didn't have heart palpitations worrying about him like some dreary little housewife waiting at home._  
  
When I returned mid-afternoon from Brendan's lunch, Justin was nowhere to be found. I figured he'd gone out with Daphne to blow off steam, or maybe over to PIFA to express himself artistically in one of the studios. _Fuck,_ I thought, _this hit him harder than I imagined._ I didn't worry, though. Instead, I changed and went to the gym. Two hours later, when I returned, Justin still wasn't home, but I knew he was a big boy and I don't keep track of him so I threw down my gym bag and headed upstairs. I showered, found some jeans and a tee shirt, and then spread out my work on the dining room table, knowing that'd keep me busy for a long time.   
  
It did.   
  
It's close to ten before I emerge from the Intuic Technology campaign, a little startled by the hour. Still, no Justin? Okay, well, that's fine, although … he should call. That's the responsible thing to do, right? The responsible thing, even though, technically, he isn't in violation of any rules until after 3:00 a.m. Besides, my stomach is growling, but I have no idea if he's eaten or not, so I don't know how much food to order. I nod to no one as I make my decision. Yeah, I should call him … about the food. Not because I'm worried or want to impinge upon his freedom. And I sure as shit don't want to tease him anymore about Jennifer and Sean. I just—I need answers about our-my dinner plans.  
  
Dialing his cell phone number, I listen to it ring. Twice, four times, six. Then it goes to voicemail. So, it's ringing and he's not picking up. I click off, and drum my fingers on the table. Then I dial again and go through the same thing. Shit. It's not like he can leave the fuckin' thing in his car. No, it's _on_ him and it's ringing in real time, so why in hell isn't he picking up? He can read my name on the display, so he doesn't have an excuse for—  
  
Okay, I'm behaving like he behaves and I don't like that at all. Nor do I know _why_ I should even be concerned. There've been plenty of times he's been out late with friends or because of school, and I didn't have heart palpitations worrying about him like some dreary little housewife waiting at home. Fuck it. I slide the phone away and pick up the photos I was studying, shuffling them one by one as I decide which model works best for the print ads. The redhead? No, too flamboyant for a company that's staid and very button down. The brunette? A good possibility, although this particular one seems to lack the necessary sex appeal even the most sedate company needs to project. Okay, how about … the blonde?   
  
_The blond_? Fuck! With a growl, I grab the phone, clutching it tightly like I'm holding a fuckin' grenade, and hit redial. On the sixth ring, he answers. "Brian?" he whispers in a tone I instantly recognize.  
  
Knocking back the chair, I stand in one swift motion, pressing the phone closer. "Hey." I speak casually though casual is the last thing I feel. "Where the hell are you?"  
  
"It was all a lie, Brian," he says like we're in the middle of a conversation rather than just starting one. "A big, fat lie." His voice sounds like it does when he awakens from a nightmare, faint and filled with pain.   
  
"Where are you?" I'm moving as I gather things: wallet, keys, shoes. "I was on my way out so I'll swing by and pick you up."  
  
"I wanted to come home, but I was afraid," he continues in the same bewildered manner. "I've been walking all day, trying not to think, to just keep it out of my mind, but it doesn't want to leave me alone, it just keeps coming back."  
  
_Walking all day_? I slide open the loft door, closing it gently behind. My heart beats faster as I take the steps down. Justin sounds on the verge of tears, dazed, disoriented. Something's happened and I need to find him, fast. "Let's get some dinner, okay?" I keep my voice low-key and even. "Maybe I can help. Just tell me where you are."  
  
A silence goes on so long I'm afraid I've lost him. "I-I just got off the bus. I think I was coming home."  
  
"The 14? Were you on the 14?" I shove open the building's front door and come out onto the street, the sautéed-onions aroma of someone's dinner instantly hitting me. Looking right, I spot taillights far off, much further down Tremont. A bus. That has to be a bus.  
  
"I didn't want to talk about it." He's abrupt, almost panicked." That's why I stayed away. You understand that, don't you?"  
  
"Of course. There are a lot of things I don't want to talk about." Walking fast, I head in the direction of the bus thinking maybe Justin got off at the next stop because he sometimes does that and walks back to the loft. By the time I reach Shepherd, though, I see that's not true; he's nowhere to be found. "Justin, where'd you get off the bus?"  
  
"It won't stay out of my mind, Brian," Justin tells me with increased alarm. "I need it to, but it just keeps coming back, it wants to grab me, to tear me apart!"  
  
Turning on my heel, I run down the street in the opposite direction toward the bus shelter on the other side of Fuller, skirting around people like I'm running interference for the Steelers. "Nothing's tearing you apart. You have control over that shit," I tell him, dodging a car that blares its horn as I race across Fuller. I give the driver a well-placed finger, but don't slow down. Up ahead, I spot the shelter's three-sided Plexiglas structure, plastered with huge movie posters of the latest _X-Men_ flick. Then I see his blond head. "Thank fucking God." A second later, I'm coming around to the shelter's front, facing the street.  
  
For May, it's a cool night and there's a slight breeze making it even cooler. Justin, in the same tee shirt and jeans he wore this morning, huddles in on himself, obviously cold, especially if he's been walking around for hours the way he says he has. Snapping my phone shut and slipping it into my pocket, I seat myself next to him. "Justin?"  
  
He flinches at my voice and lowers his phone, half-turning to look at me. The area around his eyes looks bruised, although I'm sure that's my imagination. He's ghostly pale in the poor lighting and even though I'm having trouble seeing his eyes, the expression on his face leaves no doubt that he's not doing well … not doing well at all. What the fuck happened? It's not even twelve hours since I last saw him yet he's disheveled and disoriented, acting more like the kid who came out of rehab back in September than the more recent Justin, the one with all the confidence. "You were right. That's what you're going to tell me, isn't it?" he says as he stares, the rising anguish an immediate concern. "I should've listened and I didn't. I thought I knew him. I really believed what he said to me. Why would I doubt him, Brian? He's my _father_. No one doubts their father."  
  
_Shit_. This is about Craig-fuckin'-Taylor? I grit my teeth as I put an arm around his shoulders. "Let's go back to the loft, okay? We can—"  
  
"We just talked about this and you kept telling me not to trust him and I didn't listen. God, I didn't listen at all! I thought you were prejudiced, that you couldn't have an objective opinion about him because of what he'd done to you. And I was angry, so fuckin' angry because you were treating me like a child." He gasps like he's having trouble breathing, drawing a few desperate gulps of air as he stares at me with wide eyes.  
  
"We're going back to the loft." I decide the polite approach isn't working. "Come on." I tighten my grip on his shoulders to urge him up.  
  
He pulls against that hold, twisting to face me. "He used me, Brian—he fuckin' used me! All he cares about is his job. That's all he ever wanted, to get my help so he could keep his job and—" His voice breaks as tears stream down his face. "All the time, all that fuckin' time he-he pretended that I was important to him, that I meant something, that he understood about me and-and accepted me, but he didn't—he never did!" He makes a sound, something between a sob and a moan and takes a shuddering breath. "He _never_ cared, never! All he did was lie and try to use me and-and—" With a loud cry, he throws up his arms, elbows bent at a ninety-degree angle, as if to protect his face, and leans forward. He's crying hard, his body wracked by sobs, his slender frame shaking violently.  
  
I have no fuckin' clue what happened, but the urge to kill his goddamn father is so strong I'd do it if the man were anywhere nearby. "Come on." I press a hand against his shoulder. We're attracting attention and I want to get him away from the prying eyes. "Let's go home, okay?"  
  
Justin's heartbroken sobs continue, but he raises his head enough to focus on me. "He wanted me to-to play the straight boy for him, for his uncle," he manages to choke out as we stand, my arm still encircling him, my thoughts darker each second that passes. "That's all he ever wanted! He doesn't care about me! He never did! Never! I was just—"  
  
Justin's face goes slack. He stares straight ahead at something I can't see, blinking slowly. "Brian?" he whispers in a voice filled with apprehension. "That's … what's that? It looks like …it reminds me of …"  
  
He stiffens and makes a strange sound like air is being forced past his vocal cords involuntarily.  
  
Then, with a sudden look of surprise, he throws back his head, eyes widening, and begins to shake with a forceful intensity that's startling and frightening. An instant later, he's falling.  
  
"Oh, shit!"  
  
Bracing him against me, I lower Justin to the sidewalk as violent convulsions shake him. His eyes roll back into his head as he arches, his arms and legs striking the ground. The sight of him hits me hard, so fucked up and painful I'm having a difficult time getting a breath, or having a coherent thought. Right then, a big, baldheaded man eating an apple walks into the bus shelter. "You!" I say, pointing a finger at him. "Give me your jacket!"  
  
The man gapes at us, startled.  
  
"He's having a seizure—give me your jacket so he doesn't hit his head against the concrete!"  
  
To his credit, the guy throws away the apple, peels off the jacket, folds it, and kneels on Justin's other side, slipping it under his head where I'm holding him.  
  
"Shouldn't we put something in his mouth?" he asks breathlessly.  
  
"No, that's a myth—you can't fuckin' swallow your tongue." I check my watch. Okay, let's call it twenty seconds.   
  
"You can't?" the guy says, and I give him more credit because he's still there next to Justin, and he looks concerned. "What can I—"  
  
I gesture at the crowd we've attracted. "Tell them to back up."  
  
He jumps up and begins to order people back, sounding firm and authoritative. "Come on, give him some room!" I hear him say. Fuck, a genuine Good Samaritan. What're the odds?  
  
Justin continues to convulse while I dig my cell phone out of my jeans pocket, watching the time, keeping an eye on the bench legs, the posts that make up the bus shelter, the sidewalk under us, anything that might cause him injury should he knock against it.  
  
"Here" When the guy drops back down across from me, worried gaze on Justin, I hand him the phone. By now, we're almost at five minutes and, fuck, I remember the instructions from the neurologist: any seizure that lasts longer than five minutes can be dangerous. "Dial 911."  
  
The man's eyes are wide. "Is he going to be okay?" he says as he punches the numbers.  
  
It takes me a minute to find the breath to answer. "I hope so—I fuckin' hope so."  
  
This can't be happening again … it can't be. I fuckin' can't get in another ambulance with the kid, that same sick feeling clinching my gut, that same terrible fear making my heart pound against my ribs, wondering if he's going to live or die.   
  
And yet, I have to, don't I?  
  
I have to.  
***  
Brian meets us at Allegheny General's ER just inside the double set of automatic doors. We walk into a raucous emergency room teeming with men, women, and children, Dad and I on either side of Jennifer. Somehow, though, she manages to get ahead of us, going up to Brian and grasping his hands the moment she sees him. She's ashen, her blue eyes dark against that pallor, but she's composed.  
  
"He's all right," Brian speaks with a seriousness you rarely see in him as he looks her in the eye. "They're doing an MRI because they were able to get in touch with Dr. Radnor and he thought it'd be a good idea, but it's only a precaution. They don't think anything is wrong."  
  
Brian looks like shit. He's drawn and pale and trying to hide a boatload of anxiety behind his normal I'm-not-affected-by-any-of-this mask. As Jennifer droops with relief, her shoulders sagging as she exhales rapidly, he guides her down a short hallway to an area that isn't occupied and sits her down. Then he goes to find the doctor so she can talk to him. Dad sits with her and they're holding hands, which makes me smile, if only momentarily. Soon, Brian returns with a tall, thin African-American man with dreadlocks and wire-rim glasses. His name is Eccelson.   
  
"Your son is fine, Mrs. Taylor," he says in a mellifluous voice as he sits down on the couch next to her. "It was a simple tonic-clonic seizure—what's commonly called a grand mal seizure—but I believe Dr. Radnor warned you it was possible he'd have more than the one he had while he was hospitalized last year. That's all that's happened—it finally showed up." He looks up at Brian. "Thanks to Mr. Kinney's excellent response to his partner's plight, Justin suffered no permanent damage." He smiles at Jennifer. "The MRI is just Dr. Radnor being overly-cautious. Don't worry about that at all. When he gets back from the lab, we'll give Justin an adjustment to his antiepileptic meds and he can be on his way."  
  
"Doctor, are you sure—"  
  
"Mrs. Taylor, I'd say his biggest problem right now is that he's had a bad day." He takes a moment to check out each one of us. "Apparently a disagreement with his father sent him into a disassociate state that lasted many hours, which isn't uncommon especially for a young man who's been through what he's been through. I'm going to recommend rest, good food, and a few day's worth of tranquilizers, just in case he has trouble relaxing." He looks at Brian again. "And he'll need to make an appointment with Dr. Radnor who'll want to do some blood tests and an EEG."  
  
"Does this mean he's an epileptic?" Jennifer asks, that same anxiety in her tone.  
  
"Well, unfortunately, Mrs. Taylor, if your first seizure occurred, as it did with your son, at the time of an injury to the brain, you are more likely to develop epilepsy than if you had not had a seizure in that situation.. More than one seizure would just increase those odds."  
  
No one speaks.  
  
"I'll have the nurse let you know when Justin returns," Dr. Eccleson finally says, and takes his leave.  
  
"Fucking Craig," Jennifer hisses after another protracted silence, then, grimaces and looks at Sean. "Sorry."  
  
Sean shrugs. "From what you've told me, it sounds like the man made a huge mistake and Justin is suffering the consequences."  
  
Brian makes a sound deep in his throat and walks a distance away before returning. He moves his mouth as if tasting something foul. "So you … talked to him?" he forces himself to ask Jennifer.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"And what the fuck did he say?"  
  
We listen as Jen gives us the basics of Justin's conversation with his dad, and from what I can tell, it's bad. Okay, I can relate to losing a job, being desperate like that, but didn't it occur to him that he had no business putting it all on Justin? The old uncle … well, shit, he's just ignorant and probably always will be. Sometimes, you can't fix someone's fucked up homophobic attitude. I don't know. I hate to make statements about how much better I'd do in any given situation because, shit, you never know, do you? Maybe he's right about all the financial consequences losing his job will cause, although Jennifer is saying that's a crock. But for Justin to be put in that position, his father _had_ to be aware of what he was doing, right? Unless he's just not good at figuring people out.  
  
The instant she finishes, though, Brian murmurs something no one hears, turns, and walks away. Giving Dad and Jennifer a look, I follow.   
  
He goes outside, down the sidewalk, and I know he's going for a smoke. Stopping near the corner of the building, underneath the huge, red Emergency Room sign, he glances back at me. "I don't need a chaperone." Yeah, typical Brian. He's so prickly. Isn't that what I said long ago? Big old sharp needles everywhere, especially in a moment like this when he's been exposed for the caring individual he is. We all know it, those of us who know him as family, but sometimes I think he doesn't know it himself. Or maybe he'd rather believe he's impervious to pain.  
  
"This isn't your fault, Brian." I take one of his cigarettes. I'm trying to quit, but Brian isn't making it easy. "Thanks," I say, when he offers his lighter, and inhale the smoke deep into my lungs as I light up. "You didn't do this, but somehow, I know, you're going to blame yourself."  
  
"Thank you, Sean Junior."  
  
Leaning back against the building's brick structure, I grin at him. "That's a compliment, you know. I've always wanted to be like my dad."  
  
Brian huffs. "Yeah, I can see that. Just do me a favor? Don't practice on me."  
  
"It's not your fault." I take another drag on the cigarette. "Brian, I hate to say this, but it's like Dad said: you have to let people live their lives. What do you think it's going to be like when Gus is a teenager? He's going to make some stupid mistakes and then—"  
  
"He'll be in military school by then."  
  
I chuckle. "Yeah, right. I can really see that … you sending your son to military school."  
  
Brian makes a great attempt at looking grim. "I will if it'll keep him out of trouble."  
  
"And then do what? Seduce the commanding officer every time you come to visit?"  
  
He manages a smile. "Fuck you."  
  
"Thanks, I'll pass on that one, but it's still not your fault and, shit, Brian, it's damn lucky you were there when Justin had the seizure and knew exactly what to do. Ever look at it that way?"  
  
Brian shakes his head and doesn't look happy.   
  
Of course, he never looked at it that way. Silly me. That'd mean he did something good, and the only good thing Brian thinks he's capable of doing is … well, fucking. Okay, fucking, ad campaigns, and being more fabulous than everyone else. I step a little closer, lowering my voice. "Brian, Justin's okay. And, fuck, that's what love is all about, isn't it? Risking your heart on someone? And you might as well forget all the bullshit you're going to say about not loving him because I know that's not true." I touch his arm. "It's the way things work, big brother, in the real world."  
  
Brian throws down his cigarette and crushes it underfoot. "And just what world have I been living in, Brendan, if not the real world?"  
  
I flick away my cigarette as well and give him a shrug. "A lesser world? One not filled with light and love? One that didn't include Justin?"  
  
He's about to leave, but that stops him. Standing there, the garish red light from the neon sign overhead reflects in his face as his gaze locks with mine. "I fuckin' hate you," he mutters. Then he goes around me and, with quick steps, heads back to the ER entrance.  
  
I catch up with him and we walk back inside the emergency room and down the short hall to where Jen and Dad have been sitting. Once again, I'm hit by the pleasant and not-so-pleasant odor of so many bodies piled into such a small space, but I'm smiling, nonetheless, as I think about the way Brian and I connect sometimes. It's almost mystical or something, like we can read each other's mind. Of course, I don't believe all that twin telepathy stuff, but if I did—  
  
Brian grinds to a sudden halt as if he slammed face-first into a wall. There's a tall, blond man standing with Jen and Dad just outside the small alcove where they were sitting. Stiffening, Brian fixes his gaze on the guy like he's staring at the devil himself. "You motherfuckin' son of a bitch!" In a blur of motion, he leaps toward the man and I have no doubt he'll do some serious harm if he reaches him.  
  
"Brian!" Arms out, Dad jumps forward to intercept him.  
  
"No!" I say at the same moment and throw my arms around Brian, dragging him back, and wrestling with him as he twists against me, determined to get free. Craig Taylor—this must be Craig Taylor.  
  
"You fucking piece of shit!" Brian screams, struggling with Dad and me as both of us labor to keep him contained. "You couldn't be satisfied with the fuckin' damage you'd already done! You had to come over here and stick another knife in the wound?"  
  
"Leave it alone, Brian!" Dad says as he fights to keep Brian in place.  
  
"Let go, fuckin' let go!" Brian cries, pulling on both of us so hard he's close to breaking free.   
  
Damn, he's strong! I tighten my grip, digging in my heels, breathing hard. "Stop it! Come on, stop it, Brian! He's not worth it! You know he's not! You'll just end up in jail and then who'll take care of Justin?"  
  
During this scuffle, Jen says something to Justin's dad, and a moment later, with a glare directed at Brian, he walks rapidly down the hall in the opposite direction.  
  
"Fuck!" Brian says loudly, trembling in fury. He shakes free of both of us and walks away, in the opposite direction from Craig, though he only goes a few feet.  
  
Dad and I stand there, watching him as we try to slow down our breathing. "That was … Justin's dad?"   
  
"Yes." Dad watches Brian, his brow furrowed, looking troubled. "He … was concerned about what happened to Justin and wanted to—"  
  
"It's a little late for that, isn't it?" I snap, angry with Craig Taylor for thinking he can just impose himself on a bad situation—one _he created_. "He could've fuckin' asked Jennifer to let him know—"  
  
"I know." Dad smiles at me, clasping my shoulder. Without another word, he walks over to Brian. As he draws closer, Brian turns his back, but I see his shoulders sag and know he's boiling over with anguish and anger. Fuck, it's bad enough that he has to go through this shit with Justin, but that he has to do it being afraid to show the love he feels? It breaks my heart. Right now, though, that's exactly where he's caught: deny the feelings, deny he's angry for a good reason, deny he feels anything for anyone, _ever_. Meanwhile, he probably hates himself because the least he could've done was pound Craig Taylor's sorry ass into the ground. In the violent world Brian grew up in, that would've been honorable and right, that would've provided a sense of peace … sort of. But no, his new family stopped that, so now he's left with what? A mass of feelings he doesn't know how to handle.  
  
Dad puts a hand on Brian's shoulder and talks to him, too low for anyone to hear. Brian's head is bent, his hands jammed in the pockets of his jeans. As Dad continues, Brian sags even more, and I read the distress radiating from him, a distress that brings tears to my eyes. I want to give him a hug, to help him deal with this. Before I can decide what I should do or even if I should do anything, Dad says something to him. As he does, in a gesture that's as natural as breathing for my father, he lays his hand on the nape of Brian's neck, fingers gently massaging as he continues to talk. It's a caress, pure and simple, one my dad has employed forever with me, my mom, anyone he feels close to. I hold my breath, waiting for Brian to bat the hand away, to snarl at Dad, and remind him that they're not related, that he's not buying into that bullshit but … it never happens. Dad continues to talk to Brian just like he'd talk to me. It's sweet, simple, and brings more tears to my eyes as I watch him calm Brian down with that tender way of his, a way that, amazingly, works for my brother too.   
  
_My brother_.   
  
Dad's other son.  
  
It's coming to that, isn't it?  
  
Even if Brian doesn't know it yet.


	37. Chapter 37

~ 37 ~  
  
_Yes, right now, I'm very domesticated, and the strange thing is, I don't give a shit. Maybe I'm blind to the shriveling of my own dick as this sweet little home life slowly eats me alive, but there may be a bit more to it than that._  
  
Debbie and Vic come over Wednesday afternoon. Knowing Debbie, I'm sure it would've been sooner except Mom and Brian were probably holding her back. Which was a good thing since I could barely tolerate Mom, who wanted to drown me in food and tell me over and over again she was fine financially and Dad was an idiot, creep, jerk, fool. I'm sure she would've said "asshole," except Mom doesn't talk that way. Brian, who took off Monday and Tuesday from work despite the fact that I told him not to, did a great job letting Mom have her mother moments, but kicking her out before I needed _more_ tranquilizers.  
  
Now, of course, I'm dealing with Mom II. "Thanks, these look great," I say for the third time as Deb squeezes her puttanesca, and eggplant parmesan in among Mom's food in the fridge. "I guess Brian and I aren't going to starve." I look at Vic, who's on the stool next to me in the kitchen. "Maybe I should have seizures more often."  
  
Vic grips my arm. "Seizure."  
  
"Yeah, that's right, it was just one." Debbie closes the refrigerator door, and turns, unwrapping one of the plates of cookies she brought. "How about a couple of oatmeal raisin cookies with—"  
  
"—a glass of milk?" Leaning forward on my elbows, I run my hands through my hair. "I'd rather have something a little stronger."  
  
Debbie comes around the counter to give me a sideways hug and another smooshy kiss. "How about an espresso?" she says as she's wiping away the lipstick she left. "Brian has a machine somewhere and I can—"  
  
"Okay." I know it's foolish, but I feel like I've regressed the last few days; the thought of milk and cookies is more than I can take right now. "That'd be great, Deb. You guys too?"  
  
"Of course!" Vic arches an eyebrow. "Would I ever turn down food and drink?"  
  
Managing a smile, I show Debbie where the espresso machine is, and then sit back down next to Vic, who's already attacking the cookies. Picking up one, I decide I need to work on my attitude. After all, they're here to see me. The least I could do is be cheerful even if I don't feel that way. I bite into the cookie's soft, sweet chewiness, tasting cinnamon. If I just wasn't so tired ...   
  
Like clockwork, I've been waking up at 4:00 a.m., sweating yet cold, disturbed though I can't remember the dream, breathing a little hard, and not happy. It's happened every night since I came home from the hospital and it's been frustrating. I blame the damn drugs, which knock me out early in the evening only to wake me up at an ungodly hour, but what can I do? It's not like I'm in a position to throw them all away and wing it. Yeah, that'd be great. Having a seizure in the middle of a lecture at Pratt Hall. Wouldn't that be wonderful? Perhaps I could smear paint across a canvas on the way down to the floor just as the dean of students walks in. Also an interesting possibility. Or maybe I can just keel over right here and right now while Debbie and Vic watch.   
  
Shit.  
  
"So, how're you feeling?" Vic asks as Debbie works to get the espresso going.   
  
I swallow the last of the oatmeal cookie. "Okay, I guess. Kind of tired, still." I look from one to the other, but hell, I lived with them, they're like family. "Worried about … everything."  
  
"Don't let that asshole upset you," Debbie says immediately, the scorn in her voice evident. "He's not worth the time or effort."  
  
"Deb," Vic says in a warning tone.   
  
"Okay, okay, I know. He's your father." With a frown, she slices the air with the edge of her hand. "I'll leave it alone."  
  
The last thing I want to discuss is Dad. I've tried to keep him out of my thoughts, but, of course, that's like not focusing on pink elephants—he keeps popping up anyway. The thing is, though, that I have to think about him … or at least the things he said. Some of them could be very important, so important, I dare _not_ think of them. "Hey, Deb?" I watch her load espresso into the maker, the coffee's strong aroma wafting toward me. "Did Mom tell you anything about what Dad said, the financial stuff?"  
  
"Now you know that's not something you should be worrying about." Deb turns around to give me a look that's equal parts compassion and concern. "Whatever happens—"  
  
"Your mom's a smart woman." Vic speaks on top of Deb. "Don't worry."  
  
"So, you're telling me Dad's losing his job _will_ have an effect on Mom?"  
  
"We're saying it's not your problem," Debbie says in a firm voice as she switches on the espresso machine, "and anything that happens isn't your fault."  
  
God, I hate being the kid sometimes. They'd never treat Brian this way, would they? Fuck, they'd give it to him straight because he'd insist upon it. They don't realize it, but what they're _not_ saying confirms what I've already found out. There's an old family friend, Greg Mitford, who's a CPA. He's been doing the family finances for years and, after Mom and Dad split up, that continued. I called him yesterday. "I don't know how you can say that. Of course, it's my problem! She's my mother. And if there's something I could do to keep her and Molly from—"  
  
"Whether it's true or not, he never should've told you that." Debbie takes down the demitasse cups from the cabinet and runs hot water in each one, to pre-warm them. "That was a fuckin' shitty thing for him to do and I think—"  
  
"Debbie," Vic says again.  
  
I cross my arms and lay them on the counter, resting my head there for an instant. "Maybe it was and maybe it wasn't, but there's the reality, isn't there? If what he's saying is true, then it's something I have to think about."  
  
"Oh, fuck, I think that's a crock, Justin!" Debbie explodes, turning back toward me and looking unhappy. "You're supposed to pretend you're not gay in order to appease his asshole of an uncle, just to save Craig's sorry ass? That's fucked up and you know it!"  
  
Before I can speak, Vic jumps in again, and in a heartbeat, the two of them are arguing the way they always do, loudly. Meanwhile, I try to decide how fucked up that notion really is. After all, when Mrs. Hall was calling me a pouf, I was willing to back out of Daphne and David's wedding or try to "de-gay" myself if it'd calm things down, right? How is this different? Okay, I love Daphne and David, but I sure as shit don't feel that way about Dad. But, fuck, I love _Mom_. If she were in serious financial trouble, wouldn't I do something like that, no matter how much it benefited my asshole dad? "The thing is …" I say when Debbie and Vic take a breath. "I'm pretty sure Mom _would_ be in serious financial trouble if Dad lost his job."  
  
"That's just a lot of bull!" Debbie plants both hands on her hips like she's daring me to cross an invisible line. "If your father told you—"  
  
"It wasn't my father. I talked to the guy who's been doing our taxes, and our family finances for years." I look from one to the other. "It took a little doing, but I was able to get him to be honest about my mom's situation. It's not good. In fact, the way he put it was that she was 'hanging on by her fingernails.'"  
  
"Oh, Sunshine, that's—"  
  
"—the _truth_ , Deb, that's what it is! This guy doesn't have any reason to lie. It's not like he and my dad are best friends or anything. In fact, he and his wife are more my mom's friends these days than Dad's. He says things are bad for her and if she lost the money Dad provides, it'd be devastating."  
  
Debbie turns away from me and fills the pre-warmed cups. "Would you get the sugar, Justin?"  
  
Going into the kitchen, I take it down from the cabinet and grab a couple of demitasse spoons while I'm at it. I can tell she's upset, but, fuck, I need to figure this out. Why doesn't she see that? "You guys …" Again, I look from one to the other, biting on my lip so hard I'm afraid I'll draw blood. "If I can't talk to you honestly and you won't return that favor, how am I going to figure this out? And it _does_ need figuring out. You must see that. I can't just ignore what Dad told me no matter how I feel about what he did. And I can't talk to Brian about it. Shit, he'd explode especially after the reaction I had to everything."  
  
"And so you're contemplating causing him an even greater explosion?" Debbie says as she sets the first cup and saucer on the counter. She tilts her head to one side. "You need to think about that too."  
  
Shit. She's right, of course. That's the real reason I'm having so much trouble sleeping. If it's true that Dad's job is in jeopardy and it's true that losing the money he provides will hurt Mom and Molly, then what the fuck are my options? I might not like it and I might hate Dad's fucking guts, but wouldn't I … isn't that the only choice I have even if it kills Brian? But what about my relationship with him? Might it also kill _that_? I spoon sugar into my coffee. "Uh, thanks Deb for-for making this."  
  
She's still on the other side of the counter eating one of the chocolate chip cookies and sipping her espresso, her gaze fixed on me. "People come back from financial disasters."  
  
"I know they do, but Greg … this financial guy says she'd probably lose the house, Molly wouldn't be able to go on at St. Theresa's, that it'd fuck up Mom's credit rating." I take a hesitant sip of the dark, smoky coffee, and set it down, gouging my eyes with thumb and forefinger. "I just keep getting this image of Mom and Molly living in some crappy apartment somewhere, Molly in public school, my mom driving some piece of shit car, unable to afford anything better." I shake my head. "And it was all fixable only I didn't have the balls to—"  
  
"Justin." Vic lays a hand on my arm. "You can't put that pressure on yourself. Your mother never would. She's an adult and has to be the one making the decisions that govern her life and Molly's. She's also strong and resourceful. She'll find a way to overcome any obstacles that come up if what you're saying is true."  
  
At least, Dad had the balls to tell me the truth about his situation. I kept Brian in the dark about seeing my father for a long time. There's a certain irony in that because Dad did the same thing with me: he took his own sweet time about coming clean. Fuck, he did it, though, and doesn't that give him a little credibility? Of course, he had to do it, but so did I. Yet, how can I even give him that much after what he did? I have to admit, though, that I've been at least considering that part of what happened, along with everything else. He came to the hospital, too, didn't he? That counts for something … at least I think it does. Maybe he felt guilty. Maybe he was putting on a show for Mom or Brian or even me. Still, it's true, I fuckin' hate how he kept everything from me, how he let me think his motives were pure, how he …  
  
"I-I guess you're right." I rub at the throbbing spot on my forehead. I have to stop thinking, that seems clear. It only makes everything go round and round until my head begins to hurt. Grabbing a cookie, I stuff it in my mouth and take another sip of coffee. "These are good, Debbie," I say with false jovialness. "Really good!"  
***  
When I made it home that night, Justin seemed too quiet. Not that he's been bopping around, rocking to screeching rock and roll the way he used to sometimes, but he didn't even want to talk. Thanks to Debbie and Vic? Or, to be more accurate, thanks to _Deb_? I could only guess. We ate her puttanesca with a salad Justin prepared, then sat in the entertainment area watching _The Iron Giant_ , which I brought home for him, because of the animation. Yes, right now, I'm very domesticated, and the strange thing is, I don't give a shit. Maybe I'm blind to the shriveling of my own dick as this sweet little home life slowly eats me alive, but there may be a bit more to it than that. Like Justin getting better. Like Justin coming to terms with his fucked up father. Like Justin smiling again.  
  
He doesn't talk about his fuckin' father or any of what happened, which shouldn't be a surprise. He'll talk about the seizure, but not what caused it. He'll talk about the hospital, the doctors, Jen, Sean, and Brendan being there. Nothing more.   
  
I guess I understand that.  
  
I'm sure someone told him I wanted to punch out Craig's lights. That hasn't changed and, of course, he realized that the minute he heard how I reacted when I saw the bastard. So, there we were on Wednesday night, not talking about anything, which I'm sure would've concerned Parrack if he knew that's what we were doing. Of course, we cancelled our sessions with him this week since Justin wanted to stick close to home. I can't blame him for that, although, maybe Parrack's the person we need right now. I fuckin' don't know. As I keep telling anyone who'll listen, human relationships are _not_ my area of expertise.  
  
Like it has been since Saturday, our evening ended early. Justin took his meds about nine and by ten, his eyes were half-closed and I had to help him into bed. I know he hates that, but we won't be able to alter the meds until he sees Dr. Radnor tomorrow. Soon, he's sound asleep and I'm left to ponder the situation. It just seems like Justin can't catch a break, and that bothers me, it bothers me a lot. But I don't know what the fuck I can do about it. And _that_ makes me crazy.  
***  
I wake up about five minutes after he does, at four on fuckin' Thursday morning. I've awoken every night it's happened, but I've pretended to be asleep. Lying with my eyes closed, I breathe deeply, listening as he slides off the bed and throws on some sweats. Fuckin' Craig. This is his doing. With a few slimy words, he has Justin all tied up in knots over his obligation to his mother; I'm positive that's what is going through Justin's mind every night, that's half the reason he can't stay asleep.  
  
He doesn't turn on any lights, but I hear his footsteps as he pads down the stairs and into the kitchen. A quiet snick and he's opened the refrigerator. A moment later, from the living room, I hear the water bottle's plastic cap being unscrewed.   
  
Rolling onto my back, I stare at a ceiling I can't see in the pre-dawn light and feel like shit. If I go down there and talk about Craig, Justin will only become more upset because I fuckin' have no perspective on the man and never will. He's a major, grade-A asshole and always will be—that's about as far as I go, and we both know it. Yet, lying here doing nothing … I hate that. I want it fixed, now, and I want to be the one to fix it. Why that is, I'm not sure, but whenever it's Justin, that's one of my urges. Not the only one, but _one_ of them. Pretty pathetic, since what I want is to "make it all better." _That_ whole concept makes me cringe.  
  
With a sigh that ends in a growl, I throw back the covers and grope around on the floor until I find my sweatpants. Shoving my feet into them, I walk downstairs, stop to get water, and then head for the living room. I drop down next to him and twist my own cap, opening the bottle.  
  
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you," Justin whispers as I'm taking a drink of water, and I hear the uneven tone.  
  
I set the bottle down on the table next to the couch, wondering what to tell him, how to deal with this. Talking about it sure-as-shit isn't going to do any good. "I was dreaming about you, Sunshine," I say without thinking, "and when I reached for you, you weren't there."  
  
He makes a dismissive sound as I slide a little closer and put my arm around his shoulders, my hand slipping underneath the neckline of his sweatshirt so I can feel his soft skin. "Oh, sure, I'll bet that was a real sexy dream."  
  
His confidence is low and the sex? Well, ever since the seizure, he's been jittery so it's been pretty much nonexistent. Suddenly, I see what I can do for him. Maybe I can't straighten out his whole life in the middle of the night, but I can provide _some_ relief in a way that's uniquely … well, _me_. "Hey." Guiding his chin, I turn his face toward me and kiss him, a long, slow kiss that's warm, softly sensual, and tastes good, even at 4:00 a.m. He's wearing the slave collar, like always, except it's a necklace right now. It doesn't take more than a few seconds to readjust the thing. "Your master needs you, boy," I whisper at his ear, and nip his ear lobe. "The life of a slave means no rest for the weary."  
  
He stirs and I know I've interested him. "What can I do for you, sir?" he asks, and I feel the smiling imprint of his lips against my cheek.  
  
"Stand up," I command and move with him, until we're both on our feet facing one another. "Now, be a good little slave and do exactly as I say."  
  
He bounces just a bit on his toes, which is a good sign that he's into this. "Yes, sir!" He doesn't move toward me, though I see the motion of his hands in the dim light and know he wants to.  
  
Good. I'll pull him into a tiny fantasy, get him off, and maybe he'll be able to sleep. Stepping closer, I comb his hair with my fingers as my thumbs stroke his cheeks. I scatter kisses across his forehead, eyebrows, nose, cheeks, and chin. "Don't move," I murmur when I feel him stir, impatient for lips on lips. Still caressing, I tilt his head up, lay my mouth on his, and kiss him with tender persuasion, pushing my tongue into his mouth until I can suck on his. "You've been such a good slave, all this time—a very good slave," I whisper a minute later as I back up enough to gather the fabric of his sweatshirt in my hands. Peeling it up his body, I pause to kiss each nipple before I pull the shirt off. When I wrap my arms around him, we're skin on skin, my hands gliding across the silken expanse of his flesh.  
  
He makes a sound deep in his throat at the contact, but doesn't return the embrace.  
  
I kiss the top of his head, inhaling the tart sweetness of his shampoo. "Put your arms around me," I murmur into his hair.  
  
His arms encircle my waist and I hear him exhale. He pushes closer and raises his head, clearly hoping for more kisses.   
  
The contact confirms that I'm having the desired effect on him: beneath the sweatpants, he's hard, his cock pressing against mine when I bend my legs. Slipping my hands down, I cup the plump perfection of his ass hard enough that he shivers, then slide my hands around to his dick, pushing his pants down as I do.   
  
He groans as I grasp him, then use his pre-come to work his cock back and forth within the circle of my hand. I feel his legs shake and know I need to lay him down, quickly. Yeah, okay, I'm jittery too. "Stand still," I tell him as I let go. There's a blanket on one of the chairs in the entertainment area, a blanket he's been using during the evening if he gets cold while we're watching TV. With a few quick steps, I grab it, and return to the living room. Tugging on the coffee table, I move it out of the way and spread the huge blanket on the floor. "Lie here, on your back."  
  
Without a word, he does what I say, his erect cock bobbing as he walks the few paces to the spot. He watches as I take off my own pants, then grab lube and a condom from the pocket before tossing the sweatpants aside. Joining him on the floor, I crouch near his feet. "Lift up your legs." When he does, I move forward and kneel so that my knees almost touch his ass. Setting the lube and condom on the floor, I sit back on my legs and then put my hands around his waist, drawing him onto my lap. "Keep your knees bent," I tell him as I position him so that his ass rests on my thighs, his legs to either side of me.   
  
"We've never—" He stops, thinking maybe he's not supposed to talk, though I never specifically said that.  
  
"You may ask your question," I tell him as I grab the lube, tearing open the packet with a practiced move.  
  
"We've never done it this way before … master," he says in a meek voice.  
  
Smiling, I shake my head. "He's nineteen, and he thinks he knows all the positions. Such hubris!"  
  
"But Brian—"  
  
"No, we've never done it this way and there's a good reason why: I'll be doing all the work." My lubed finger slip between his ass cheeks just then, and, with firm, but gentle pressure, I slip inside him, working my way deeper as I prepare him for something a hell of a lot bigger.  
  
He moans at the touch, arching his hips to give me better access. A few minutes of that and the addition of a second finger convinces me that he's more than ready so I reach for the condom and tear the packet open, rolling it onto my cock.   
  
Of course, I'm always ready. Fuck, I was born ready.   
  
Urging him closer, I position myself. "Your role in all of this, slave boy, is to relax and enjoy it." I push slowly into him, focused on giving him pleasure, on helping him relax as all his worries fade away, at least for a while. That much I can do—I know I can.  
  
"Fuck, Brian!"  
  
"You're a bright boy—that's exactly what I'm doing," I say as I begin a slow, rocking motion, tilting Justin slightly upward to achieve deeper penetration. "I want you to enjoy this. In fact, it'll please me if you do. You always want to please your master, right?"  
  
He groans again, eyes squeezed shut. "Yes, sir." He speaks softly, but with evident enthusiasm. "I think—oh, God!—I think I can do that."  
  
"Great, then put out your arms, like you're flying. Good, that's very good. And open your hands. I want you completely surrendered to me and what I'm doing." Given the angle, I've buried myself deep within his taut warmth and, shit, it feels good, so fuckin' good. "Think about what's happening right now, especially what you're feeling," I continue, focusing him on the moment. "Me inside you, in so deep, filling you up, making you mine."  
  
He groans louder, flexing both hands, fingers stretching as he gives himself over to me. I drive into him, keeping it slow, keeping it measured, I pull him more onto me, using one hand to stroke him as I continue the pelvic thrusts. My hunch has paid off. This position works well because it forces Justin to relax, to receive rather than work for what he's getting, which, in this instance, is just what I want.  
  
Soon enough, the heaviness in my balls has built to an unbearable pressure. Grasping Justin tighter, I pump his dick with one hand as I power my way forward, head thrown back, eyes screwed shut. Immediately, an electrified flash of pleasure flows through me with such force it's all I can do to stay upright. We stiffen together as warm stickiness covers my hand.   
  
His feet planted on the rug, Justin rocks his hips a few times more before collapsing with another groan. "Oh, shit—shit!"  
  
In the aftermath, we remain in position for a long moment, trying to get our breath back. Soon, though, the condom's been discarded, and I'm lying next to Justin on the rug, pulling the blanket up around us as we begin to cool off. "That was great," I murmur, my arm under his neck so I can draw him closer. "You're a first-class slave, definitely. I think I'll keep you."  
  
He's turned halfway toward me, and smiles, showing teeth, looking exhausted, but happy. "I did it. I had an orgasm and I _didn't_ have a seizure."  
  
"That you did." I kiss his neck. "Let's go back to bed."  
  
"Okay." He sounds drowsy. "Brian?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Thanks."  
  
"For what? Fucking you? I think I can be pretty much be counted on to—"  
  
"—for taking such good care of me," he says and I can feel how he's relaxing within my embrace.  
  
"Oh. Well, where your sexual needs are concerned, I'm always first in line. You know that, Sunshine."  
  
"You're first in line for everything, Brian," he whispers, his eyes fluttering shut. "Everything. And I love you for that, so much."  
  
That fuckin' lump in my throat reappears, the same one I kept swallowing down a few days ago at the hospital. I stare at him, but his breathing is even, his face relaxed, and I know he's asleep. Lightly, I graze his cheek with the back of my fingers. "Yeah, I know," I whisper, and exhale softly, "I think maybe I feel—"  
  
But I stop.  
  
I don't say another word.  
  
I don't think I want to.


	38. Chapter 38

~ 38 ~  
  
_"You keep trying to make me believe you never wanted your father's love and acceptance, just like Dr. Parrack is saying, but you did—you know you did!"_  
  
In Parrack's office late Friday afternoon, I sit stiffly in the chair in front of his desk and keep my gaze fixed on the doctor, trying not to acknowledge the anger radiating from Brian. Shit, how did this happen? Last week, a few days after the seizure, Brian and I seemed fine. Well, okay, maybe not _fine_. Brian tiptoed around me, not talking about stuff, and neither did I, so maybe that's why things were kind of low-key. Still, we had that sex scene early Thursday morning and it was … God, it was indescribable how sweet and tender and _hot_ he was with me. Then, bam! Right after that, it all went to hell.  
  
"Why don't you tell me about the conversation with your mother?" Parrack says now, and looks at Brian straight on—the man's got balls. "That seems like a good place to start."  
  
Of course it is. That's when it all began to unravel. Everything was great until Mom decided we needed to do lunch. Okay, that's not quite true. Everything was great until Brian realized he'd been so sweet and gentle with me. He _always_ freaks when he thinks he's been vulnerable. He hates that, with a passion. Being vulnerable might be fine for me, the kid with the PTSD and seizures, but it's _not_ fine for Brian Kinney. So, when I had lunch with mom and, over the fajitas, she did a massive presentation complete with graphs, colored transparencies, and a three-piece orchestra, the stage was set.  
  
"We … went out to eat," I say to Parrack now, deciding I better not be as negative in my critique of Mom as I was when I told Brian. That's surely the thing that set him off. "And she said not to worry, everything was fine financially."   
  
_Just peachy keen. Super fine. Swell._  
  
Parrack has a kind of sixth sense that sniffs out people's emotions. He leans back in his chair and checks out the ceiling like he's looking for cracks or something. "So, that was it?"  
  
"Yeah, pretty much." I don't dare look at Brian or even breathe. Shit, why is it, in this instance, that I can't blow off a little steam without getting in trouble? "I mean, she was kind of _Sound of Music_ about it, but—"  
  
" _Sound of Music_? Too optimistic? Sickeningly sweet?"  
  
Shit, I was trying to be more balanced, but now he's jumped right onto the truth. "Just a bit too, yeah, optimistic."  
  
"So, she told you everything was fine and you needed to get on with your life because all would be well in the Land of Oz?"  
  
I raise my head, surprised. Parrack smiles at me.   
  
"Okay," I say, offering him the concession, "maybe she was trying a little too hard."  
  
"And that irritated you just a bit?"  
  
I don't know why I bother trying to conceal anything from him. "A little."  
  
"A little?" Parrack rubs his chin, looks at Brian again, and then refocuses on me. "I don't know, Justin. I seem to remember back in the Dark Ages when I was nineteen, my mother treating me in a patronizing manner was grounds for the severing of our relationship ... at least for a few hours."  
  
"It wasn't patronizing."  
  
"No?"  
  
"It was more … " I bite my lower lip. " … _there, there, everything's going to be just fine_." My voice goes up as I feminize it.  
  
"So, she treated you like a child?"  
  
"A little."  
  
"Would you fucking tell him how you felt?" Brian asks, barking out the words as he jerks his head in my direction. "You said it was infantilizing."  
  
So, of course, being the smart and grown up person I am, I came home and told Brian how wrong she was, how things _must_ be royally fucked up for her to treat me that way, how I had to consider again everything Dad said to me because it all must be true. Sometimes, I wonder about getting such a high score on my SATs. It doesn't seem to help with the real life stuff. I was upset, of course, and spouting off, but I sure as hell wasn't doing it to get Brian all riled up. Which I did.  
  
"And that's when the two of you had your fight?" Parrack says right on cue.  
  
"He fuckin' decided he _likes_ the role of Boy Wonder," Brian says in his best sarcastic voice.  
  
Parrack's forehead wrinkles. "Boy Wonder? Like from Batman?"  
  
"That's what one of Brian's friends calls me," I tell him.  
  
"Oh. And is that true? Are you planning on going in there to rescue your mother whether she wants to be rescued or not, despite the consequences or possible consequences to you?"  
  
"Doctor, I told you what the finance guy said, Greg Mitford—"  
  
"He ought to be kicked out of the business for giving you information like that—it's completely unethical," Brian says, and I make a mental note: Brian can _never_ meet Greg.  
  
"—but to answer your question, I don't know what I'm going to do." I steal a tiny glance at Brian. "I kept trying to tell him that. I'm still … it's confusing to me."  
  
"Other than the obvious facts you've gathered, tell me what you think might be influencing your decision one way or another."  
  
Should I tell him how I'm fuckin' tired of being the kid with the PTSD, etc.? That I think maybe as the oldest child and only son, I owe it to my mom to take care of her this way? No, probably not. He'll just react like everyone else and try to tell me it's not my responsibility to see to my mother's future and I shouldn't sell myself out to some old geezer just because he has that kind of power. And, in one way, he's right. I hate the whole idea of standing in front of nasty old Uncle Charles while I'm buttoned down, and _not_ me. Hell, I'd rather get something out of Emmett's closet and show up in a see-through top or half-shirt. It'd suck in a major way to deny who I am and maybe it would be something I'd have to live with the rest of my life, something I'd deeply regret. But if Mom goes through a major upheaval and takes Molly with her, wouldn't that be worse? I won't have any money to give to her—I'm years away from major cash. Isn't it, as the saying goes, the lesser of two evils? "Well, on the other side of the argument, there's Brian," I say without looking at him.   
  
"Because he's so dead set against you doing anything that'd help your dad?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Do you understand his point of view?"  
  
I chew on a thumbnail, risk a look Brian's way, and see the smoldering fire in his eyes. But I see something else too, a concern, a sympathy, a _something_ … that vulnerability he hates? "I think so. Dad treated him like shit. Then Brian saw Dad treat _me_ like shit, so it makes sense that he'd hate my father. Plus …" I'm not sure if I should go in this direction, but, fuck, I'm sure it's part of the problem.   
  
Parrack sees the hesitation. "Plus, what?"  
  
"Brian hates fathers."  
  
"I fuckin' do _not_ hate fathers."  
  
"Yeah, you do. Name another father you can tolerate other than Sean."  
  
"Sean?" Parrack asks. "That's Brendan's father, right?"  
  
"Who says I tolerate Sean?" Brian says in the middle of Parrack's question.  
  
We stare at one another, but I didn't get this far into the relationship by backing down. "Your dad was … not-so-nice, and you've never forgiven him for that not to mention the fact that he said he never wanted you." There. I said it.   
  
Brian snorts. "'Not-so-nice'? Is that what they're calling it nowadays?"  
  
"Okay, your father was an abusive bastard. And you equate all fathers with him."  
  
Brian's mouth twists. "How rude of me, especially when _your_ dad has been such a stellar example of fatherhood."  
  
"Brian …" Parrack taps his upper lip with the knuckle of his middle finger. "… let's stay away from sarcasm, okay? As we've discussed, it's rarely productive. Instead, why don't you tell me how you worked out your adult relationship with your father given all the struggles you had with him at a younger age? Perhaps that'd help Justin in figuring out his own dilemma."  
  
"Once I left for college, I didn't give a fuck about my father," Brian says, his voice uneven.  
  
"I find that hard to believe. You wanted nothing from him?"  
  
"I never did."  
  
"Brian, let's think about this. You were a child. Children come equipped with certain primary needs, among them, love, and acceptance. Surely, there was a point in your life when you wanted some of that from your father even if you knew, logically, that he'd never give it to you."  
  
Brian's glare intensifies as he focuses it on Parrack. "Gee, doc, I guess I just forgot that part."  
  
Inwardly, I wince. He's just becoming more and more angry. This won't work.   
  
"So, your attitude toward him was, fuck it? You never wanted another thing from him?"  
  
Brian doesn't speak.  
  
"You wanted him to accept the fact that you're gay," I say to Brian because I can't keep quiet any longer. Fuck, he needs to admit that much, doesn't he? Because it means he wanted some of the same stuff I want, stuff neither one of us wants to acknowledge. Like our fathers' approval. "When you talked to your father that one time, you wanted—"  
  
"You don't know what the fuck I wanted! You weren't even there!"  
  
"You keep trying to make me believe you never wanted your father's love and acceptance, just like Dr. Parrack is saying, but you did—you know you did!"  
  
Brian looks at Parrack and then over at me. His face is impassive, but the anger is palpable. "You may think because you live with me, because you've known me for—how long?—the last year-and-a-half, that you have an inside track on me, but let me tell you something: you don't know _shit_ about me, Justin."  
  
"Brian—"  
  
"If you want to delude yourself into believing that somehow there's a salvageable relationship between you and your father, there's nothing I can do about it. It's _your_ choice and you can make up your own fuckin' mind. In fact, I wouldn't have it any other way. But don't think you and I share some deep yearning for our fathers' love because it isn't true. And don't expect me to sit around like some dickless fag with his thumb up his ass while you throw yourself into a situation that'll only end up hurting you. I won't do it! Do you hear me? I fuckin' won't do it!"   
  
Brian jumps out of his chair and in two quick steps, reaches the office door, and jerks it open. A moment later, door slamming behind him, he's gone.  
  
I stare at Dr. Parrack. "What's wrong with him? Is all of that really about me and my dad?" I ask as the sound of that slamming door reverberates in my ears.  
  
Parrack's expression remains tranquil. "Ever had a boil, Justin?"   
  
My eyes widen. What the fuck? "Uh, no, but my … I know people who have."  
  
He nods. "Then you know the cure for an abscess is that the infection has to be _drained_."  
  
Okay, finally something my SAT brain can wrap itself around. "You-you're saying—you're using that as a metaphor to describe Brian. Something … there's an infection inside Brian, one that needs to come out. And it involves his father."  
  
Parrack nods again.  
  
I know the doctor isn't going to give me a blow-by-blow description of Brian's problems, and I can pretty much figure them out anyway, but the whole thing is disconcerting. "That makes me … afraid for him."  
  
"I understand. When people go through things like this, it can be scary, it can seem like the end of everything. And I can't promise it won't be. However, all you can do is move forward, carefully, and attempt to make the best decisions possible."  
  
I nod, trying to breathe around the constriction in my chest. "Meanwhile, what am I going to do?"  
  
Parrack leans forward, gaze firmly on mine. "You're going to talk about it some more with me and perhaps a few other people you trust, and then you're going to make your decision."  
  
"But what if I make the wrong decision? What if Brian doesn't want anything to do with me? Or, on the other hand, if my mom ends up losing her house and Molly ends up in some lousy school? Do you know what the public school system is like around here, doctor? For shit! That alone could negatively affect her entire life."  
  
Parrack gives his head a firm shake. "You weigh the evidence, you make your choice, and you live with the consequences. That's how it's done in the adult world, Justin. And you _are_ an adult." He picks up one of his paper animals and relaxes back in his chair, studying it. "As an adult, sometimes you have to do what you have to do even if that means going against conventional wisdom, even if it means you're wrong, even if people are hurt." His gaze returns to mine. "You try to avoid hurting people, of course, but if you're caught between two opposing groups, and you need to make a decision, sometimes that's what happens."  
  
Fuck. I don't like that.  
  
I don't like that at all.  
***  
Brian shows up at my place around six looking miserable and filled with anger. He eats half the pasta salad I made while bitching the whole time about the carbs, then insists we go out bar hopping and clubbing, make a night of it, have some honest-to-God brotherly fun. I know something's up, of course—you don't have to hang around Brian long to read his distress signals—but I play dumb and persuade him to stick close to home, telling him I'm a little under the weather. I don't like lying to him, but he has a look in his eyes that tells me he needs quiet conversation more than loud music and sex. Soon, he's downing the Johnnie Walker in my replenished liquor cabinet like we've just uncorked the last bottle and have to finish it before it evaporates. I add lots of water to my glass and drink about one to his three, so I remain relatively sober. The upshot is, it doesn't take Brian long to get hammered. Shit, he's so messed up and I know it has to be about Justin and the Craig Taylor issue.  
  
I don't push it, though, because I know how explosive he can be when he's upset. Instead, I drink with him and let him talk if he wants to, which, at first, he doesn't. We sit in my living room in a silence I find comfortable, listening to the CD of a jazz musician friend I bought a few days ago. Once he's feeling no pain, though, like a good Irishman, Brian opens up a little and talks about some project at work he thinks I'd find interesting because of the photography. Letting him talk, asking questions, being attentive pays off and soon he's talking about his new boss at the revamped Ryder-now-VanGard. That leads him to a tangential thought about older men like Vance Gardner who're gentle and low-key, men he likes. Dr. Parrack, for one, although he has some grudge against him right now. A guy named Dominic who runs an inn in Vermont is also high on that list as well as my dad, even though Brian is quick to point out that he doesn't give Dad a pass on _anything_ just because he's my dad. That makes no sense to me, but I leave it alone. And then there's Vic, Debbie Novotny's brother, who also rates in Brian's eyes.  
  
"When he told me he was gay … the whole world changed," he says at one point, looking off into the distance as if he's seeing into his past. "I was in the kitchen, eating a piece of cake he'd made while I told him about some kids harassing Michael, calling him names. Fuck, I didn't think _Michael_ was gay; I didn't think I was either. Then he told me and I was … surprised, so fucking surprised. I never knew anyone who was, until then."  
  
"Vic seems like a great guy."  
  
Brian ignores me. " Sometime after that, my father found out."  
  
"That Vic was gay?"  
  
"My fucked up creep of a father called him a faggot." Brian pauses to knock back the drink in his hand and I see the glittering anger in his eyes. "He thought he was better than everyone else; someone like Vic hardly rated as human. He'd prance around with his wrist bent and make crude remarks about Vic, even in front of Michael. His attitude was so fucked up and judgmental, especially for a drunk who beat his kid and stayed as far away from home as possible."  
  
My fingers tighten around my glass. That's very unBrian-like and I'm not sure how to respond. Fathers are a sore subject right now—that much I get. "You, uh, waited until he was sick with the cancer before you told him, right?" I venture, not sure if I want to play the role of psychiatrist, but feeling somehow led to ask the question.  
  
"Like he fuckin' cared," Brian mumbles. He grabs the bottle and refills his glass, splashing a little on the table as he does. "All he ever wanted from me was money when he ran short and a couple of drinks when he was thirsty. Who I was, what I believed, none of that really …" He stops, face twisting, and lowers his head.  
  
That's when I get up and go the few steps to the couch, dropping down near him, although I don't get too close. Grabbing the bottle, I fill my own glass like that's the reason I came over to sit with him. "You told me … right at the end he seemed to come around a little. Maybe if he'd—"  
  
"Fuck! Who cares?" Brian whispers, his voice rough as he rakes a hand through his hair. "Who cares about anything? It's all worthless in the end, no matter what you say or do. It means nothing, just fuckin' nothing." He inhales on a shaky breath. "It's about time I learned that."  
  
Despite myself, I stiffen at his words.  
  
Fuck. I don't like hearing him talk like that.  
  
I don't like it at all.


	39. Chapter 39

~ 39 ~  
  
_"God, Brian!" Utterly dismayed, the words just pop out of me. "You shouldn't say things you can never take back!"_  
  
By Monday, a little after five, I'm _still_ keeping tabs on Brian. I've been watching out for him all weekend long though I suspect Brian realizes what I'm doing. By this point in our relationship, I have that irritating little brother vibe, one he normally shrugs off, so even though he knows I'm up to something, he ignores me. So, after all the drinking at my place on Friday, he spent the night, and then I saw him again on Saturday. On Sunday I came up with a reason to see him today when I decided to put my car in the shop. It's leaking oil and needs a mechanic's care, but I kind of made it sound a little more urgent than it was. With some grumbling, he finally agreed to pick me up at the auto place after work today so I could drop the car off. Then he invited me to have dinner with him.  
  
In case it's not apparent, I'm concerned about Brian, very concerned. Something's not right with him and it seems like he's carrying a huge burden, one that has to do, at least in part, with Justin. Throughout the weekend, Justin has wrestled with the decision about his dad and the uncle, whose birthday is this coming Wednesday. Apparently, the communication between those two has hit an all-time low, which makes me sad. Brian and Justin are meant for each other, but, shit, did that ever make a difference when couples get into it? Yeah, Brian would even deny the "couples" part, but he's the only one in all of gay Pittsburgh who thinks that way. I wish there was something I could do. I need a white box with a red cross on it that I can open and find Dad inside. He'd fixed everything. Yeah, I've talked to him and he's concerned too, but I don't have the same kind of influence with Brian that he does … even if Brian says that's not true. He's funny like that, so transparent when he thinks he's opaque. That's one reason I love him so much.  
  
Anyway, we're on our way back to the loft to eat Chinese food for dinner, which I insisted upon because Thai always gives me heartburn. We're discussing a certain Nikon I have my eye on. Now that I'm such a big, _important_ photographer, I need more high-priced equipment … at least that's my current rationalization. Well, I do have another commission in the works and I need a digital camera with a faster shutter speed. Maybe it's not just a high-priced toy. While we're having this discussion, I'm wondering where Justin's at in his thinking. As of yesterday, when I talked with him, he was still not sure what he was going to do. I hope everything will settle down soon. If they can get through the next two days, things might get back to normal.  
  
Just as we come around the corner and pull up in front of Brian's place, all of that cautious optimism falls apart when I see him: _Craig Taylor_. He's sitting in a car on the other side of Tremont, arm jutting out the open window. For a instant, he doesn't see us and Brian doesn't see him.  
  
_Oh, fuckin' shit_! I grip the door handle so tightly I almost jerk open the door. Frantically, I look for a way to divert Brian's attention. Yeah, sure, I know it's not a good sign that Justin's father is parked in front of the loft, but my first instinct is to protect Brian, somehow.   
  
"Motherfucking son-of-a-bitch!"  
  
Too late.  
  
Brian throws open the Jeep door, jumps out, and charges across the street without even checking the traffic. I scramble to catch up with him.  
  
"What the fuck are you doing here?" Brian shouts as Craig gets out of his car. "Didn't you do enough damage already? You just had to come back for another shot at him?"  
  
"Brian!" I grab his arm to keep him from getting any closer. "Come on! You can't—"  
  
"I can fucking stop this right now!" He pulls against me so hard I feel his muscles contract. Fuck, he'll deck Justin's father if I let him. "You have no right— _no right_ —to lay this shit on him!"  
  
"I didn't call him!" Taylor says, his voice rising above Brian's. "I'm here because he called me!"  
  
That stops everything. "He called you?" Brian asks in a much quieter voice, standing there, looking like he's been coldcocked. "When?"  
  
"A few hours ago." Craig backs up against the car as if he's sure Brian will jump him any second.   
  
Brian stares at him, his expression frozen.   
  
"Aren't you the one always preaching to him about individual freedom?" Craig flings the words at him, his voice jagged, but still forceful. "Telling him he should do what he wants to do? Well, that's what he's doing!"  
  
Suddenly pale, Brian turns on his heel. He walks around me and heads back across the street, his back straight, his hands curled into fists.  
  
With a last glance at Craig, I follow, catching up with Brian just as he punches the code into the security panel at the front door. Without a word, he yanks open the door and goes inside, taking the stairs two at a time. At the fourth floor, he pulls keys from his pocket and opens the door, slipping inside.  
  
I follow.  
  
Justin stands at the foot of the bedroom stairs, very still as he stares at us. He's wearing cargoes and a green, long-sleeved knit shirt. After a minute, when no one moves, he bends to retrieve two black canvas suitcases at his feet. Carrying them as far as the stainless steel counter in the kitchen, his eyes never leave Brian's face. "I'm sorry," he says in a voice I can barely hear as he sets the bags down. "I have to do this."  
  
Brian's lip curls. "Don't make yourself the victim. You don't _have_ to do anything. You _choose_ to do it."  
  
"I told you, Brian, I _saw_ her bank account records. She's not going to make it if I—"  
  
Brian attempts to look amused, but the pain etched into his face makes that impossible. "So, in addition to denying who you are, you're snooping into your mother's private paperwork and—"  
  
"It was all in plain sight!" Justin rubs his temples like he's had this discussion one too many times. "I didn't go over there to snoop. I-I know I told you it was to pick up some mail that'd come to my mother's house, but …" He licks at his lips like he needs water. "I went to get my suitcases just in case I needed them, although I hadn't made up my mind yet. I'm sure you don't remember, but when I moved in here you didn't have much storage space, so I—"  
  
"I don't give a fuck why you went or what you found. You're a bigger fool than I ever thought possible." Brian's face distorts into a terrible sneer. "You better hang onto to those suitcases, _Sunshine_. You'll probably need them when you move."  
  
My mouth opens halfway and I'm about to protest, but Justin is quicker. "I can't believe you're saying that." I admire how he's handling himself because he sounds strong. Upset, sure, but still strong. "You'd kick me out because I helped my father in order to help my mother? That's fucked, Brian, incredibly fucked."  
  
"Call it what you want. Besides, you only came here to live because you were recovering from the bashing." Brian waves a hand as if to display Justin head-to-toe. "That's obviously happened, hasn't it? Look at you! Even after the seizure last week, you're in top form, ready to go to Michigan and single-handedly set back gay rights thirty years all by your little self. So—"  
  
"Like you care anything about gay rights!"  
  
Brian steps closer to where Justin stands. "That's not the fuckin' point. The point is, I don't run a babysitting service or a fuckin' hospital." He jerks a hand back toward the loft's door. "And that isn't a revolving door. If you plan on living a life where you end up needing medical care all the time, you're in the wrong place! I told you already, at Parrack's, I'm not going to stand around and wait for you to crash again. I have better things to do with my life than put you back together and—"  
  
"—love me?" Justin says, his tone clipped, though I hear the underlying anguish. "Is that what you're trying to say, Brian? Once and for all? The thing you've been saying ever since you met me? That you don't really love me even if you give every indication that you do? That I'm nothing but a fuck to you?"  
  
Brian gives his head a slow shake. "Don't lay that guilt on me because it isn't going to stick. I told you from the beginning, I don't do love. Just because your romantic little heart keeps getting broken each time I _don't_ say what you want to hear … that's not my fault."  
  
"God, Brian!" Utterly dismayed, the words just pop out of me. "You shouldn't say things you can never take back!"  
  
"Shut up!" Brian snaps, his gaze never leaving Justin's face.   
  
"It _is_ what I wanted to hear," Justin says, and tilts up his chin. "And it's what you need to say. In fact, it'd do you a world of good to say it, but … I can't force it, can I? Nor can I stay with you if you want to throw me out."  
  
"I'm not throwing you out. You're making your choice, you're deciding whom you want to align yourself with just as you're deciding when you want to lie, when you want to be honest. I'm not doing a fuckin' thing except—"  
  
"When _I_ want to lie? You hypocrite!" Justin voice rises. "You've lied plenty of times! Just because you make up some cutesy expression like, 'It isn't lying if they make you lie,' doesn't change anything! You lied to your parents. Don't tell me you didn't. For years, you never told them you were gay while you used the excuse that it was none of their business. You think that's not a lie? It _is_ a lie because you lived under false pretenses, you played at being someone you weren't, you—"  
  
Brian's jaw muscles twitch. "Don't tell me what I did with my parents! It's none of your fuckin'—"  
  
"I _will_ tell you because I know you." Justin hurls the words at him, "I know you so well I can see past the façade you put up, I can see the real you. And I know exactly what you did. You kept your secret from your father and you know why? Because no matter how much you'd like to think otherwise, you're no different than me. You wanted his love—that's why you kept quiet."  
  
"Shut up!" Brian growls.  
  
Justin, though, only looks more determined. "It doesn't matter that my father's abuse is recent, that I grew up in a pretty good environment while your father's abuse was long-standing and you grew up in a lousy environment. Because the truth is, we both want our fathers to love us, no matter what they did. I want that and _you_ want that too. You can go on denying it until you're old and gray, but that doesn't make it less true."  
  
"Shut up!" Brian yells.  
  
"No, I won't shut up! You're a human being, Brian, and human beings need love. You need love, desperately, and yet all you know to do is push people away. Now you're doing it to me because I'm helping my mother and that means helping my dad. And, okay, I admit it, I hope by helping her I _still_ might have a chance for some kind of a relationship with my father." Justin pauses, breathing hard, looking more and more distressed. "You think that's fucked up, but the way I see it, I have the guts to do something _you_ tried to do right at the end of _your_ father's life. And I _saw_ the effect that little conciliatory move he made had on you. You didn't know that, did you? That I knew about him coming over, how Lindsay was here, how he met Gus. But thanks to Lindsay, I did know and I put two-and-two together, the way I always do with you. I was with you shortly after that encounter, Brian, and I could see the difference in your face. You _wanted_ your father's love! Just like I do! And you'd want _my_ love too if you had the fuckin' balls to admit how much it means to you, if you'd just stop hiding away inside yourself like you're too chicken-shit to—"  
  
"I said shut up!" Brian screams as he springs toward Justin, arm flashing back in a blur of motion.  
  
"Go ahead, hit me!" Justin cries, not flinching away. "That'll take care of everything won't it?"  
  
"Shit!" Brian jerks away from him, and, with raw, frenetic power, sweeps several liquor bottles, a bowl of apples, and some wine glasses off the countertop with such violence they explode on the hardwood floor, shards of glass and pottery flying everywhere in a shattering cacophony of noise. Instantly, the acrid aroma of whiskey is in the air. "Get out of here!" Brian shouts as we jump back from the explosion. "Get the fuck out of here!"  
  
For a crazy second, I fixate on the sound the apples make as they roll everywhere. "Brian, you don't have to—"  
  
He savagely turns on me, eyes alight with a furious fire. "You, too! Out! Get out!"  
  
Justin gathers his bags and, feet crunching on pieces of glass, follows Brian to the door. "Don't end it this way, Brian," he pleads in a voice that shakes. "Please, don't!"  
  
With a enraged shove, Brian rolls back the loft door. "I'm not fuckin' ending anything—you are! Now get the fuck out, both of you!"  
  
Without another word, I take one of the suitcases from Justin and, hand on his shoulder, lead him out. I'm shaking like a motherfucker, sick and angry and scared, wishing like hell I could think of something to say or do.  
  
The loft door slams shut behind us with a resounding clang.   
  
A second later, we're heading down the stairs. When we reach the bottom, I stop Justin as he moves toward the door. "Wait."  
  
He turns and I see the tears in his eyes.  
  
"Shit." I set down my suitcase and put my arms around him, giving him a firm hug. "It'll … you never know what Brian will do. It doesn't mean shit that he—"  
  
Justin drops his suitcase and returns the hug so that I feel his trembling. "Yeah, it does. It means a lot that he's closed himself off like that." His voice is thick with emotion. "I think I went too far. I think I fucked both of us."  
  
I pull back to look him in the eye, hands still on his shoulders, fingers pressing. "Don't take all the blame, Justin. Brian has some issues here, issues he needs to deal with just like we all do. If he chooses not to deal with them, well, that's not your fault."  
  
"But I pushed."  
  
"Brian's a big boy, he can handle it."  
  
A tear runs down Justin's face, but he wipes it quickly away. "You know what, Brendan? I think … sometimes I think he can't. I think he's fragile and-and I'm afraid if he doesn't deal with this shit, he's going to break one of these days, just snap in two. It's .. it's like that saying about the strongest tree is the one that bends with the wind. Brian's not strong like that. He'll break. I'm afraid he'll break."  
  
I have the same concerns, but I'm not about to say that to the kid. "He'll be all right. He's strong. Besides, he's got me now, the pesky little brother."  
  
"But he just threw you out to." Justin's face crumples. "Fuck, he threw me out! I'll have to go back to my mom's and I sure as shit don't want to do that!" He stares at me, blinking, and another tear slides loose. "I love him, Brendan."  
  
"I know you do. Me too." I take a deep breath. "He'll change his mind," I say with all the conviction I can muster. "I wouldn't take him at his word just yet."  
  
"But what if he won't let you near him, either? He could do anything."  
  
"I'll be persistent. Listen …" I give his shoulders a squeeze and let go. "You, uh, must be going straight from the birthday party to the wedding." Daphne's wedding is on Saturday; Brian bitched about going to a "breeder" affair all weekend long. "If you need somewhere to crash in-between the two events, my place is available."  
  
He gives me a wan smile. "Thanks, but once I get back in town on Friday morning, I'll be staying at the Hall's mansion until the wedding on Saturday—Daphne insisted." Justin closes his eyes and a wave of pain washes over his face. "This is so unreal. Brian was going to escort me to the wedding. He's never done anything like that before. Now … can he really be throwing me out of his life because of something so stupid as our _fathers_?"   
  
"It's a little deeper than that."  
  
"I know, but still …" He opens his eyes, and I see the misery there. "Did I just make a huge mistake?  
  
"You had to do what you thought was right," I tell him because, honestly, I don't know if he did or not. "Let's keep some positive thoughts, okay? Brian loves you—even a blind man can see that. So, I think he'll come around."  
  
Justin opens the door and looks out to where his father waits across the street. His gaze returns to mine, a mournful expression in his eyes. "I wish I felt as confident as you do," he whispers, and reaches for his suitcases.  
  
"Have a good trip." I give him another quick hug and watch as he crosses the street, the suitcases in hand. His father comes halfway to meet him, and takes one of the bags. I can tell in an instant, by the set of Justin's shoulders, there's no love lost between them. Fuck, the things we do, sometimes, to help someone. He hates the guy, the guy caused tremendous pain not to mention a fuckin' seizure, yet now he's coming to his rescue? It doesn't seem right.  
  
At the moment, though, not much does.


	40. Chapter 40

~ 40 ~  
  
_"I'm fine, Uncle Charles. Happy birthday," I say in my most polite voice. I'm standing perfectly straight; a book, I am sure, would balance nicely on my head. No limp wrists, no gestures with my hands, no hip jutting out. I'm one hundred percent straight … at least on the outside._  
  
"So, you've tried to reach him for two days and he isn't returning your calls?" Daphne says in my ear for the fourth time, like she can't quite believe what I'm saying.  
  
In my hotel room in downtown Lansing, I press the phone a little closer to my ear as I pace around the room: bed to bathroom to sitting area and back to the bed. "Yeah. I don't expect him to call." I force myself to remain non-emotional, exhaling until my lungs are empty. Since I'm meeting Uncle Charles within the next hour or so, I wouldn't want to have reddened eyes, would I? _Real_ men don't cry—I'm sure that's what he'd say, and, of course, "real men" aren't queer. Where that leaves Brian, I'm not sure, since he _never_ cries. "Anyway, I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner, but it's your wedding so … I didn't want to bring something like this to you."  
  
"I'll be smacking you on the arm as soon as I see you," Daphne replies in a voice that's supposed to sound severe. "Right now, though, I want to know how _you're_ doing. God, Justin! That's terrible!"  
  
I stop in front of the window that looks out over the courtyard, watching people splash in the swimming pool below, and try not to be as miserable as I am. How did this happen? That's what I've been struggling to figure out. It seemed like one moment everything was fine with Brian and I, the next, everything had gone to hell. Now he won't talk to me. Shit, I can't even reach him at VanGard. Believe me, I tried, but Cynthia told me he wasn't taking any calls—several times. Can this be happening? Has Brian really thrown me out of his life?  
  
"Is your father there?" Daphne asks right then, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Can you talk?"  
  
"No. Uh, I insisted on my own room. I didn't want to stay with _him_ ," I tell her quickly and walk to the sitting area, tired of the pacing. "He'll be here in a few minutes. We're supposed to make a late entrance to the party."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"So people will already be there. Uncle Charles wants to make sure I'm making the right impression not just on him, but on everyone. I'm going to be the main attraction." With a sigh, I look down at my gray trousers. Could I be anymore bland? I have on a white shirt and a blue tie with a few thin stripes of red in it. Wouldn't want _more_ red. That might be too gay. Fuck! Carefully, I sit down on the chair next to the table, drumming my fingers on its polished surface. "I feel like shit."  
  
"Yeah, I bet." Daphne's voice drops in sympathy. "I think … you know what I think? I think you're _amazing_ —just so brave and mature. I am _so_ in awe of your integrity, that you're willing to risk everything in order to take care of your mother and sister."  
  
Mom, of course, was not amused by that alleged bravery … and that's putting it mildly. She called me after Brendan told his dad what happened and Sean told her. She was _pissed_ because I did it and because I didn't tell her I'd done it, but it was Dad who felt the full force of her rage. Whereas with me, she was low-keyed but distressed, with Dad … well, she _reamed_ him. He told me she tore into him with a fury he'd never seen before. All I could think was, good for her. I wish I could do the same, but I don't want another seizure and, besides, isn't that what I did to Brian? Tore into him? I mean, fuck, I thought I loved him. Why'd I have to jump on him like that and force my version of the truth on him? Maybe he wasn't ready to hear it. Maybe all I was thinking about was _me_ and what I wanted. "Well, thanks, but I'm not feeling very noble or whatever. I'm feeling like I stepped in it and now everything is a big, huge mess."  
  
"But Brendan will talk to Brian, right? He's so sensible and sweet. I bet he finds a way to help Brian get past this—you just wait and see."  
  
Of course, Daph is three days from marrying the man of her dreams, so she's feeling optimistic. And since I'm her man of honor, I'm not about to bring her down. "Yeah, you're probably right," I tell her with what cheer I can conjure up. "Uh, listen, I'll arrive at Mrs. Hall's around 2:30. Orbit will bring me."  
  
"Orbit? Oh, the shuttle service?"  
  
"Yeah. I just want to make sure you'll be there. I'd hate to arrive and have to deal with your future grandmother-in-law all by myself."  
  
"Don't worry, I'll be there, and, besides, David says she understands that times have changed. He told her that her behavior was just plain rude and said she understood."  
  
"Well, I think I'll have my fill of old homophobes by the end of tonight, so I'd rather avoid her."  
  
"We'll be there. And listen, I already told David too much was going on with you health-wise, and your doctor said you needed to take it slow and not drink, so you're off the hook as far as his bachelor party is concerned."  
  
David isn't the type of guy to hire a stripper and drink the night away, but apparently, one of his best friends just couldn't resist the idea. Even though I'm not in the groom's wedding party, I was invited, and was dreading the idea of fending off lap dances offered by big-boobed women. Not exactly my scene. "Thanks. David's not upset, is he?"  
  
"Not at all." Daphne giggles. "I think he'd rather avoid it, but he's got to keep the peace with his friends. They did cancel one of the strippers and promised to keep it clean."  
  
Poor David. I don't envy him that, but he'll get through it. He's made many great decisions in the last few months and I think he's going to be good for Daphne, and she'll be good for him. At first, when they told me they were engaged last fall, I wasn't too happy. Now, all of that's changed and I think they're made for each other. At least, someone's love affair turned out right. "Uh, by the way, I brought my tux and everything with me so—"  
  
"Don't worry, there's a valet at Mrs. Hall's. He'll take care of it."  
  
"Oh, okay." Right then, there's a knock at the door. Shit. "Uh, Daph? I think my dad's here."  
  
"Okay." There's a pause and I know she's trying to think of something positive to say. Daphne is always that way. "Listen, I love you and I'm very proud of you, okay? You're doing a wonderful thing."  
  
Sure. Denying who I am. That's wonderful not to mention life affirming. "Thanks. I better go."  
  
"Bye. I'm thinking about you!"  
  
"Me too."  
  
I reach the door a few seconds later and open it to find Dad standing there in his own conservative I'm-a-straight-white-guy black suit. "Hi," he says and his gaze drops to the ground.  
  
My hand tightens on the doorknob. "Let me get my jacket." Turning, I walk a few paces and retrieve it from the closet. He and I have had minimal communication during our time together. Most of his has been stuff like: "Are you sure you want to do this?" "You don't have to do this," and "I'm sorry about what happened." Is he being sincere in any of that? I don't have a fucking clue.   
  
"Listen," he says when I return, shrugging into my suit coat, "it's not too late to stop this if you aren't comfortable with it. That's all right with me, Justin, I swear. I don't want you—"  
  
"You and I both know why I'm doing this, Dad, so why don't we just get it over with?" I walk out the door, then wait for him to follow, and close the door behind us. I can't get into this shit now. If I do, it'll fry my brain. It's too late anyway and he fucking knows it. He's just trying to assuage his conscience or something.  
  
"Justin—"  
  
I turn on my heel and head down the corridor to the elevator.  
  
***  
Uncle Charles and David's grandmother, Mrs. Hall, might both be old fuddy-duddy homophobes, but their taste in architecture is totally different. First of all, Uncle Charles doesn't live in a mansion. He might run a multi-million dollar business, but he isn't in Mrs. Hall's tax bracket, I'm sure. His house, surprisingly, is one Brian would love. A multi-leveled, ultra-modern home with huge windows everywhere, it has a sixties vibe to it—maybe a Mondrian influence? Given all the square shapes and gleaming panes of glass, that seems like a good guess.   
  
I try to remember the last time I was here, but it's been awhile. I might've been a child. Maybe I even _liked_ Uncle Charles back then, although, I hate to put my younger self down that way. Surely, even when I was ten, I had enough sense to know an asshole when I saw one.   
  
Dad walks to the front door with me. Balancing a package wrapped in shiny blue paper with a deeper navy blue ribbon encircling it, he rings the bell. A moment later, a smiling woman opens the door and ushers us in.  
  
The living room/great room area inside is minimalist _everything_ and the furniture would make Mies van der Rohe very happy. There are several Barcelona chairs, done in black leather, that maybe are authentic and maybe aren't. Brian would know because he's talked about adding some van der Rohe pieces to go with the Le Corbusier chaise lounge, but not being a furniture expert, I have no idea. Uncle Charles also has some avant-garde white leather chairs and a couch with chrome frames on the _outside_ that give them structure and strength. Since it doesn't seem to fit with his uptight, Christian-on-the-righteous-path-to-God image, I imagine Uncle Charles (and Aunt Myra) going this route about forty years ago when they were younger and hipper. By now, it's probably part of their image. Everything is beautiful and well kept so they are obviously proud of it.   
  
The place is teeming with people: men in dark suits, women in glittery cocktail dresses, everyone festive and laughing as they drink. I can see the bar at the other end of the room and it looks fully stocked so the whole crowd is buzzed, people talking loudly over one another as jazz music plays in the background. There are a few people in black and white server outfits circulating with trays, so Uncle Charles is taking good care of his guests who are, Dad told me, people from TASI, and other business friends. The place smells like Italian food, perfume, aftershave, and booze, but somehow it all works together to a pleasing effect. Without comment, Dad moves forward to a table packed with gifts and adds his to the pile. Several people greet him and he shakes hands, moving from person to person, smiling, though I can tell his heart's not in it. He introduces a few of them to me, and I do my best to offer a firm handshake.  
  
Dad lays a hand on my shoulder and when I look at him, he motions with his eyes, and I see Uncle Charles. He's at the other end of the room in one of the white leather chairs, hands gripping the arms, seated like a king on his throne. Like every other fuckin' man in the place, he's wearing a black suit, white shirt, and tie that's black, white, and red. Uncle Charles has the good Taylor genes, of course, so even now, on his seventieth birthday, he has a full head of grayish-white hair, cut short on the sides, a little longer on the top. Dad must've gotten his good looks from another part of the family, though, because Uncle Charles has a thin, hawk-like face whose most prominent feature is a long nose. Not very attractive.  
  
Aunt Myra stands beside him wearing a blue silk sheath dress that seems frumpy to me—Emmett would never wear it. There's a string of pearls and some white shoes that go with this outfit, but nothing else the least bit imaginative or original. She's a little younger than Uncle Charles, but also bony thin and, with her mid-length, mousy-brown hair and pale pink lipstick, kind of drab. I can't imagine the two of them having sex. Maybe that's why they never had kids.   
  
We walk toward them. It could be my imagination, but as we do, it seems like the noise level drops. Is this my big moment and should I shake my hips as I walk? Shit, I came to play this game, so of course, I'm not about to do something like that, but the thought gives me a little comfort.   
  
"Uncle Charles," Dad says as we stop in front of the man. "Happy Birthday." Dad looks over at Myra. "Hi, Aunt Myra."  
  
"Craig, how good to see you," she says in her professionally pleasant voice. "You're looking well."  
  
"Hello, Craig," Uncle Charles says with all the warmth of a rattlesnake. "I'm happy you could make it. And you've brought Justin." His voice rises in fake astonishment. The fuckin' liar! Like he didn't expect me and it's such a _big_ surprise. "How are you, my boy?"  
  
"I'm fine, Uncle Charles. Happy birthday," I say in my most polite voice. I'm standing perfectly straight; a book, I am sure, would balance nicely on my head. No limp wrists, no gestures with my hands, no hip jutting out. I'm one hundred percent straight … at least on the outside. "Hello Aunt Myra." I give her a tepid smile.  
  
Uncle Charles puts on his most concerned voice. "I trust, Justin, that you're doing well after that unfortunate … mugging back in June?"  
  
Shit! I stiffen all over. That's what we're calling it now? A _mugging_? This will be harder than I thought. "Yes, sir, thank you. I'm doing fine now."  
  
"Good. Glad to hear it. I understand you've started your freshman year of college, Justin. What are you studying?"   
  
Dad and I went over the possible questions and how they should be answered. He suggested that instead of lying outright, I fudge my answers, i.e., exclude certain facts, play up others. After all, Uncle Charles isn't going to check the accuracy of what I tell him. This is all for show.   
  
_Oh, my God!_ Right then, it hits me. The sin of omission. That's what I'm doing … just like Brian with his father. Didn't I just blast him for that? Shit, I'm no better and I'm sure as hell not noble! "Uh, I'm studying art, but I've given a lot of thought to transferring to Dartmouth next year," I say, sticking with the program, although, yeah, the thing about Dartmouth … that's an outright _lie_. "Whatever I end up doing, I'll need at least a minor in business."   
  
"Ah, so true, so true." Uncle Charles nods like I've just revealed the secret of life. "No matter what you do, my boy, business is at the bottom of it, always."  
  
I suppress a smile at the word "bottom" and the image it evokes. Wouldn't Uncle Charles be surprised if I gave him a crystal clear definition of that word from _my_ point of view?  
  
"How is your mother, Justin?" Myra asks like she's supposed to.  
  
"She's fine, uh, working in real estate and doing quite well." God, I so hate this. "And Molly's doing well too. She just won first prize in her school's science fair." _The school I'm trying to keep her in, you bitch._  
  
"That's lovely to hear," Aunt Myra says with all the enthusiasm of someone about to have a root canal.  
  
"Well, this all sounds wonderful," Uncle Charles says and I'm hoping maybe he's satisfied, but, no, as it turns out, he's only getting started. "Now tell me Justin … you're what? Nineteen? As I recall from my college days, that's when I sowed a few wild oats." He pauses to wink at his wife like this is somehow titillating. "You must be, uh, quite an item with the ladies, aren't you? You've got the Taylor good looks."  
  
At my side, Dad stirs. "Uh, Uncle Charles, let's not put Justin on the spot about—"  
  
"Let the boy answer, Craig," the old bastard snaps.  
  
That's when I realize he's determined to test me and, if possible, embarrass the hell out of me in the process. Maybe he thinks I've already embarrassed him by "flaunting" myself. Maybe he thinks that's because I "chose" such a "perverted lifestyle," I need to be punished. Whatever the reason, I can see the cold gleam in his eyes and know he's not going to let me off lightly. Pressing my lips together, I stand a little taller, my nails digging into the palms of my hands as I curl them into fists. "I have a number of female friends, Uncle Charles."  
  
His forehead wrinkles in an exaggerated gesture of disbelief. "Do you? No special one though?"  
  
"I have a very good friend who I've known for years, but she's not a girlfriend."  
  
"Oh, come on, Justin. Man-to-man: you never fooled around with her?"  
  
No one in the hushed room so much as blinks. I have no idea what these people know. Are they aware of the whole thing? Or do they think old Uncle Charles has finally gone off his rocker, asking a college kid about his love life? Of course, I'm tempted to tell him that yes, I _did_ fool around with Daphne, but I'm not saying something like that. "That'd be inappropriate especially since she's getting married on Saturday."  
  
"You let her get away?"  
  
"I'm not interested in marriage. My career is more important right now."  
  
"But, still, you must admit, Justin, that it seems odd." The son of a bitch presses on in a voice full of fake concern like he's doing a little on the spot counseling with me. "A handsome young man like you, in college, out on his own, able to do whatever he wants, yet, you stand here and tell me you have no love life? I must admit, even an old man like me finds that strange."  
  
The heat flares into my cheeks, but I somehow manage to keep my cool. I open my mouth to answer, but right then, Dad lays a hand on my shoulder. "No, Justin. Stop."  
  
"Dad—"  
  
"This was the wrong thing to do." Dad's voice rumbles, the emotion evident. "Very wrong. I know I'm the last person on earth to realize it but—"  
  
"You can't—"  
  
"Oh, yes I can." He looks around the room, and I see the sudden steel in his gaze. "Excuse me, you?" He's pointing to someone across the room. "Would you shut off the stereo?"  
  
A moment later, the music ends, replaced by dead silence. Everyone in the room seems frozen, watching Dad as they wait for his next move. For a moment, I forget to breathe. _Oh, fuck,_ is all I can think.   
  
Dad searches the room again, pausing every now and then to look someone in the eye, the challenge undiminished. His voice rises as he begins to speak. "I want you all to hear what I have to say because it's important, very important." He looks over at me. "This is my son, Justin. My _gay_ son."  
  
My stomach drops. _Fuck!_  
  
"When I found out he was gay, more than a year ago, I had a number of misconceptions about what that means, misconceptions _you_ might have. For instance, I thought he'd chosen a lifestyle in defiance of me and my middle-class values. I thought he was rebellious, doing something twisted and depraved in order to get back at me for some perceived injustice." He looks at me and, in a flash, I see his tiredness, his anxiety, his pain. But I also see something else, something even I can't deny: his love for me, a love that's been obscured all these months, but a love that's _still_ there. "I did a number of incredibly stupid things after that, the most stupid being that I wasn't there for Justin when he was bashed." His gaze again flashes around the room. "And that's what it was. _Not_ a mugging, a homophobic gay bashing—a young man who hated what Justin was so much he took a baseball bat and tried to kill him." He looks down at the floor, his face flooded with sadness. "And he nearly did."  
  
"Craig, you're to stop this at once!" Uncle Charles says in an icy voice.  
  
"No, Uncle Charles, I won't." Dad rakes a hand through his hair and unbuttons his coat, taking some deep breaths. "The thing is, my uncle wanted all of that to go away. He wanted Justin to return to the closet he'd come out of, to shut up, and pretend that he was straight. And if Justin wouldn't do that, well, he threatened me and my job at TASI."  
  
"I never did or said anything—"  
  
"He promised to turn over control of the company to me—my _father's_ company—only if Justin played this absurd, asinine game here at his seventieth birthday party. What you've been witnessing is Justin's bravery in going through with it, not because of _me_ , but because he cares so passionately about his mother and sister, because he knows what'll happen to them if I lose my income."  
  
"Craig!" Aunt Myra's voice is a whiplash. "Stop this at once!"  
  
"Don't worry, Myra, I'm almost finished." Dad draws another deep breath. "But I can't do it. I'm not as brave as Justin is because I can't stand here and watch this man who calls himself a Christian take shots at my son for being the person God made him to be."  
  
Myra gasps.  
  
"Yes, that's right." Dad raises an eyebrow as he glares at her. "He was born that way. He's honest, courageous, intelligent, creative, has a great sense of humor, wonderful taste, and he's _gay_. That's just how it is and God knows it's taken me a long, long time to come around to that point of view. But I'll tell you something, Uncle Charles. There's another thing Justin is: he's a hell of a better man than you'll ever be."  
  
"You'll regret this, Craig," Uncle Charles says, and the rattlesnake sounds very pissed off.  
  
"I'm sure I will, but you know what? I don't give a shit." He looks over at me. "Come on, Justin." Turning on his heel, he walks toward the front door.  
  
Standing there, I take a crazy moment that's part glee, part insane relief, to poke out my hip, hand cupped there as I give Uncle Charles my widest grin. "Actually, you old geezer, just so you know, I have a _gorgeous_ thirty-one-year-old lover and I'm sure I've had more sex in the last six months than you've had in your entire lifetime."  
  
Uncle Charles makes a sound like someone's punched him in the stomach.  
  
That's when I turn and follow Dad.  
  
***  
In the car on the way back to the hotel, Dad and I don't speak. I'm so shocked, I don't think I can. The thing is, I'm having trouble believing he said what he said, and, fuck, that he did it for _me_. It has to be true, though, since it sure as shit didn't help him at all.  
  
When we get back to Dad's room, he unlocks the door and goes in. I stand there for a moment, wondering if I should go down the hall to my own room like I've been doing, but finally decide to go inside. Shit, I have to figure out what this roller coaster ride is all about and if it'll continue. The ups and downs are making me crazy. "Why … uh, how come you did that?" I ask him as I close the door.  
  
He's at the mini-bar and when he shuts the fridge, he has several little bottles of Four Roses, which he sets down on the small table that's close-by. "Want a drink?" he asks as he grabs a couple of glasses. "I sure need one."  
  
My Dad wants me to drink with him? Fuck, it might be the end of the world. "Sure." I sit opposite him and take the glass he offers a moment later. "Thanks."  
  
He drops down in another chair, but just sits there, hand wrapped around the glass, not drinking. "I guess … that tears it."  
  
"Why'd you do that?"  
  
He looks down at his glass, then across at me. "I did it because … it was about time. I think—it's clear to me that Jen and I raised you to be a man of integrity, yet, that's not how I was behaving at all, which is rather ironic. Hell, I haven't behaved that way since this whole thing started."  
  
"By 'whole thing,' you mean when you found out I was gay?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
_Dumbfounded_ doesn't even begin to describe the way I feel. I knock back my own drink, the bourbon burning the back of my throat as it begins to heat my stomach, and wonder if I've entered an alternate universe where "Good Craig" exists and I'm just now finding out about him. "What-what about Mom and Molly?" I manage to ask. That's why I came, right? That's why I risked everything.  
  
Dad drinks his own Four Roses, then sets it down with a tiny clink. "I have a pretty sizeable 401K, which I haven't touched because the tax penalties are so steep. I can keep them going with that for … I don't know, I'll have to run the numbers. Long enough for me to find another job and for Jen to get a few more sizable sales under her belt." He looks over at me. "And I agree with Jen: you need to go back to being a college student and leave this to us."  
  
"How can I—?"  
  
"Because it'll be all right," he says forcefully, and grabs another bottle, pouring liquor into his glass.  
  
"But you'll have to find a new job."  
  
"It'll work out, somehow."  
  
"And you did it because of me?"  
  
Dad shrugs, and there's unmistakable anguish in his eyes. "He was trashing you, Justin, and, hell, you're-you're my _son_. I guess that's what I saw in that moment, probably for the first time since this all began. You're my _son_. Do you know what that means? Do you have any fucking idea how important that is?"  
  
My eyes fill with tears and for an instant, I can't breathe. _Oh, my God._ Not what I expected. Not what I expected at all. "Can I …" I hold out my glass, and, yeah, my hand shakes as I do. "Can I have another?"  
  
Dad manages a wobbly smile. "Sure."


	41. Chapter 41

~ 41~  
  
_Pop may have been wrong about a lot of things, but, at the end of all his bullshit, there was one indisputable fact: everything I suffered, no matter how unfairly Jack went about making sure it happened, I deserved. Yeah, that's right, I fucking deserved it._  
  
It doesn't matter.   
  
Nothing matters.   
  
Not really.  
  
Hell, Justin would've left eventually. I always knew that. Everyone else might be stuck in some candy-coated, valentine-encrusted fantasyland where people walk around with fuckin' stars in their eyes, but I know better. I live in the real world where people speak alleged words of love and make rosy promises they can't keep. People _want_ love—and, yeah, maybe they even want it from their fathers—but wanting and having are two different things. Real love? I'm not even sure it exists and if it does, it's nothing I'll ever have.  
  
Thursday night, as I saunter around the loft, a glass of Beam in hand, I'm working hard on getting drunk. I ought to go out, hit Babylon, find a few willing men to ease my pain, but, shit, Babylon brings questions with it, and questions demand answers. I'm not in the mood for Mikey, Emmett, or Ted grilling me because they hope to better their own pathetic lives by trashing mine. Fuck them. Fuck everyone.   
  
Approaching the living room, I take a few fast steps and leap onto the couch, balancing as I walk across it. I raise my glass. "Here's to fathers," I say, and hear the echo of my voice in the loft's stillness. Justin and his brilliant psychoanalysis of the Life and Times of Brian Kinney, but it wasn't just him, was it? Brendan agrees with him not to mention Parrack. Me and Jack and the eternal question of a father's love. Can you get anymore maudlin? But, on the other hand, maybe they have a point. Yeah, let's blame it all on Jack. Why not? He was a bastard. Hell, he took being a bastard to new levels, didn't he? He fucking turned it into an art form.  
  
How about that time I was … six, maybe? Seven, tops. Still a little squirt capable of getting piss-in-your-pants scared. Jack went out to get plastered one night and while he was gone, Mom became ill. She must've had the stomach flu or who the hell knows what, but she was barfing and crying and scared the shit out of me. Claire wasn't there either, although a lot of good she would've done. After some hand twisting, I went across the hallway to Mrs. Pearson's apartment. She had to be a hundred years old, though, given my perspective at age seven, she was probably in her fifties. The thing is, she came right over and helped Mom. She was a real trouper, Mrs. Pearson, and kept telling me everything would be okay while she made tea for Mom or held the bowl for her while she threw up. Gross stuff, but she hung in there.   
  
Not that Jack gave a shit or even thanked her.  
  
In the middle of that, he arrived, three sheets to the wind, staggering like a motherfucker, demanding to know what was going on. When I tearfully told him Mom was sick, he told me to shut up and when I didn't, he began to mock me. Yeah, that was my dad, such a fuckin' sensitive soul. Of course, as soon as the ridiculing started, I got mad as hell and began to mouth off at him while the fuckin' tears streamed down my cheeks. The goddamn bastard. He liked it that way: make me react, blame me for doing it, and then take his revenge. And so he did, smacking me so hard I fell backwards onto the coffee table and almost broke my fuckin' back. I had that particular bruise for a long time.  
  
Jumping down off the couch, I walk to the front window and stare out at the nighttime sky. Yeah, the love of a father is _so_ important. Wow, it's obvious … how the fuck could I think otherwise? Memories like that one convince me that everyone in the entire fuckin' world knows what they're talking about when they blather on about parental TLC. Me? I'm just wrong. Wrong about a father's love, wrong about everyone's love, wrong about love in general. Somehow, I must have been absent the day they talked about that in class, right? I'm just the loser who never got it straight no matter how many times it was explained. Love and flowers and pretty little pie-in-the-sky ... one way or another, it eluded me.  
  
I turn and go back to the kitchen counter where I left the Beam, pouring a fresh shot. Shouldn't be walking around here barefoot, though. It's amazing how many tiny shards of glass can remain even after you've swept, mopped, and vacuumed away all the vestiges of your life—or at least you thought you had. That's what it was, that huge mess on my hardwood floor a few days ago: my entire fuckin' life laid out in all its broken messiness, make believe, and unreal, and not meant to be, but my _life_ nonetheless. With _him_.   
  
Justin.   
  
The kid whose name makes me wince.  
  
Let's face it, though. I don't deserve him. Never did. A beautiful young man like that with ideals and intelligence and the artistic vision of someone twice his age. It was only a matter of time before he realized he could do better, much better.   
Pop may have been wrong about a lot of things, but, at the end of all his bullshit, there was one indisputable fact: everything I suffered, no matter how unfairly Jack went about making sure it happened, I deserved. Yeah, that's right, I fucking deserved it. My father knew that at some deep level that must've been intuitive, although it's hard to imagine him being intuitive about anything. Yet, he knew, didn't he? Knew that I never should've been born, that in all its splendor and glory, in all its terror and agony, the world would've been a better place without me.  
  
The downstairs buzzer sounds, but I ignore it. Brendan, no doubt. He's made the usual pest of himself, buzzing and banging and leaving messages here and at work. I'm not talking to him. No way. I won't talk to any of them, not anymore. The purveyors of true love and happy endings have had more than their say and, frankly, I'm done. If they have a potion that'll turn this frown upside down, they can jump me in an alley, and force it down my throat—it wouldn't be the first time. Until then, I'm returning to my default position, the one that worked for me so well for so many glorious years. They can fuck themselves, one and all.  
  
A little unsteadily, I go upstairs and step onto my bed, walking across it, then turning, coming back like I'm a tightrope artist. The Beam in my glass comes close to spilling, but through the magic of perfect balance, I avoid another liquid disaster.   
  
Of course, thinking about it further, maybe there is _one_ good reason why I'm in the world. After all, without _me_ —the stunt baby sent to the Kinney residence—what would've become of poor, sensitive Brendan? He would've been in deep shit trouble the minute Mom brought him home and Jack laid eyes on him. I give an elaborate shudder and drain my glass. He would not have survived, my dear, sweet little brother. Hell, no. So there's _one_ good reason why Brian Kinney was born. Hurrah for me, the great savior of Brendan Sean Connelly. I raise my glass to salute myself, but, fuck, the glass is empty … as it so often is.  
  
Someone knocks on the loft door.   
  
Speak of the devil! That's bound to be my widdle brother, his big hazel eyes all soft with worry as he seeks to counsel me. I'm so lucky, aren't I? He'll instruct me in the ways of the world, hold my hand, and tell me all is well. If I let him in, we'll probably do affirmation exercises in front of the mirror. _Look in the mirror and tell me who you see, Brian._ Well, I'll tell you right now, little brother Brendan-O-Mine, I see darkness, that's what I see. Darkness, depression, and a boatload of despair just waiting to spew out if I give it a fuckin' chance. Which I'm not going to do. No matter what. No spewing allowed. It'd ruin the Italian fixtures.  
  
More knocking, but now, being the astute observer I am, I notice that it's polite, a simple tap-tap-tap, unlike my brother's demanding bang-bang-bang. Hmm. Maybe _not_ Brendan with his psychological bullshit-in-a-jar. An encyclopedia salesman? Can we look up the words "fuckin' nuts" and see if I fit the description? How about my downstairs neighbor, Mr. What's-his-face, asking that I'd confine offing myself to respectable hours when my sudden thump on the floor won't scare the shit out of him? Of course, I wasn't trying to off myself back then … was I? Maybe. Maybe not. Okay, it might've crossed my mind. It seemed like a great idea given the prospect of growing old and ugly. What did I have to live for anyway? Yeah, I changed my mind and yeah, that might've been a good thing … good right up until the moment Chris Hobbs appeared in my rearview mirror. After that, it was nothing but pain and misery, people offering advice, reality fading whenever a flashback kicked in, Justin, so pale, so determined, so willing to save us both.  
  
Speaking of flashbacks … I turn a half-twist and spot the little black bag where I set it earlier. The rosary. I left it at Brendan's apartment back in November, but he returned it a few weeks later. I stashed it away in a drawer. Why I brought it out now, I don't know. Maybe I hoped to figure out what all this shit is about? Everything began with the rosary, right? Invading my dreams, morphing into roses, turning up as a real honest-to-God item, and, ultimately, leading me to Brendan—which lead to what? All kinds of trouble. On the cosmic level, I'm sure it means something profound. If I believed in God, I have a feeling I'd see his hand in all of this, pushing me along, directing me, whatever. All I can think, though, is that I didn't even have the balls to open the bag. _Flashbacks._ Those red swirls had brought them on before and I didn't think a fuckin' flashback right now would be a great thing on top of everything else. So, there it sits, and it means something. Or it doesn't. I wish I knew. As a matter of fact, I wish I knew a lot of things.  
  
With an abruptness that surprises me, I sit down, folding my legs yoga-style. The glass rolls away as I bury both hands in the bedspread's velvety softness. Am I drunk enough to sleep? True, I have pills stashed everywhere. I could take them. I could do the job quickly and quietly and no one would be the wiser until I failed to turn up for work. Trouble is, I can't. Not because I'm so fuckin' noble and I need to live in order to discover that cure for cancer. It has nothing to do with me, since I already established—with Jack's help—that I'm not worth anything. But Justin, yeah, he's worth something, he's worth it all. And I could never do that to him. No matter how mad I am at his stupidity about his father, his bullshit analysis of my psyche, his everything, I couldn't do it. It'd crush him because he's entrenched in that romantic notion about him and me. He'd never recover from a killing blow like that, so, no, I'll soldier on, I'll live and fuck and work my magic at VanGard … at least until I know Justin's past caring.  
  
Good for me. Hooray.  
  
Again, the gentle knocking. Fuck it, Brendan! I don't want the doppelganger talk where I'm looking at my own face while you show me the better way! I fuckin' _hate_ the better way and, while I'm thinking about it, better for _whom_? Sure as shit, not me! With a soft growl, I heave myself off the bed and stomp down the stairs. He's not getting in, I vow as I walk to the loft door. He's being told to take his ass home and leave me the fuck alone.  
  
I slide open the door.  
  
It's Sean.  
  
The words on the tip of my tongue fly away and I stand there, suddenly mute.  
  
"Hi, Brian," he says in that gentle voice of his. "Can I come in?"  
  
"You've been trying to come in for the last twenty minutes," I shoot back, but then feel bad. It's _Sean_ , dressed in jeans and a purple sweater, Sean whom I like. "Uh, listen, I'm not exactly in the mood for company." My gaze hits the floor. "So, maybe you can tell Brendan, nice try, but no cigar, and I—"  
  
"Brendan doesn't know I'm here. I just got into PIT and took a cab over."  
  
"You don't have luggage," I say, but he points and I see a carry-on to his left. "Oh." Reluctantly, I take a step back. "Sure. Come in, but I have to warn you—"  
  
"—you're drunk?" Sean picks up his bag, steps inside, and sets it back down. "Sounds like a good idea to me."  
  
I wave a hand at the kitchen counter. "Help yourself."   
  
A minute later, Sean's fixed a drink for himself and joins me in the living room where I prepare to listen to his lecture. I mean, why the hell else would he come? Lighting a cigarette, I hope my temper doesn't snap. I like Sean. I'd hate to curse at him. "So, Brendan told you what was going on and you flew to the rescue?" I ask, a little smirk in place.  
  
"Actually, I prefer to leave rescuing to firefighters or Superman." He gives me a warm smile. "Besides, my tights are at the cleaners."  
  
One of the things I like about Sean is his self-deprecating humor. It works for me. Taking a drag on the cigarette, I feel myself ease up just a little. Maybe there won't be a dog-and-pony show complete with computer-generated slides. "So, why'd you come?"   
  
Sean sips his drink, the ice clinking against the sides of the glass, and waits until I look at him. "I came because I care," he says with a sincerity even I can't deny.  
  
_Motherfucker._ Just what I need. Mr. Touchy-Feely #2, although he's really #1 in the chicken-versus-the-egg thing. "That's great, Sean, and I'm touched, but, this shit … it just gets old. I'm a little over it right now."  
  
"Your brother is worried, Brian, and for good reason. You're doing a great impression of a man plummeting to earth without a parachute."  
  
Another thing I like about Sean: his sense of humor, his use of the language. Okay, _two_ things. I grab the ashtray on the coffee table and tap an ash into it so hard I almost decapitate the cigarette. The whole man-plummeting-to-earth image puts me on edge. "That's a little over the top, but I guess I ought to consider the source."  
  
"You mean that Brendan's hysterical?" Looking unruffled, Sean crosses one leg over the other and takes another sip of his JB. "Let me tell you a little story."  
  
In an instant, the anger ignites deep within. I throw up my hands in mock excitement. "Oh, a story! Goodie, goodie! That's just swell, Sean! Tell little Brian a story, then fix him some warm milk, and tuck him into bed. That works! That'll fix everything!"  
  
Sean stares, his face immobile, but his eyes a deep, troubled blue as he studies me. "You've reached a crisis, Brian—whether you want to admit it or not, that's what's happened."  
  
With a swift movement, I crush out the cigarette, nearly burning my finger in the process. "So, where's the fuckin' intervention? Don't I get a roomful of people telling me how I have to change my ways, that I need their religious belief or twelve-step program or rehab facility if I hope to make it? And what the fuck is this so-called crisis all about anyway?" I jump up, go over to the kitchen counter, and grab the JB and a clean glass, bringing them back with me. "Did the cost of an Armani suit just go up? Maybe I'm fresh out of new men at Babylon? Or is it more serious than that? I'm losing my hair? My job's in peril … again?" I stop when I realize I'm pacing. With a bang, I set the bottle on the table and drop down on the couch.  
  
Sean waits while I pour myself a fresh drink. I hope he doesn't notice the way my hand shakes. Fuck it! I don't need this, I don't need any of this shit, and he's—  
  
"Can I tell my story?" he asks in a voice far too gentle, a voice that sounds likes fingers on a chalkboard to my hyper-stimulated brain.   
  
I shrug, rubbing my scratchy eyes with my fingertips until they burn even more.  
  
"When I was a kid, maybe ten years old, I had a dog."  
  
I fling myself back against the couch and cover my face with both hands. "Fuck! Spare me the story about Rover!"  
  
"He was just a mutt we found at the pound, part German Shepherd, part only God knows what, but a good dog for a kid—gentle, and protective." Sean chuckles. "Loved to eat. I used to sneak him food from the table and after a while, he caught on that I'd bring it to him after dinner, so he'd wait on the back porch, good as gold, until I found a way to slip away for a minute." I hear a soft gurgling and realize Sean must be pouring more JB into his glass. "Anyway, his name was Rascal—not very original, but that was okay with me."  
  
An arm across my eyes, I wonder why I let him in. This is fuckin' absurd and it's ruining my buzz. "And your father took him out one day and shot him, right?" I say with a definite sneer in my voice. "Yet, you still loved the man and I ought to do the same. If you can make peace with your dad over Fluffy—excuse me, _Rascal_ —then what the hell is my problem? End. Of. Story."  
  
"Brian?"  
  
"Okay, you're right, why stop now? After all, I _love_ the whole movie-of-the-week concept as much as the next guy. There's nothing better than a good cry as you watch one of those tearjerkers and me? Fuck, I'm the one popping the corn, I'm the one breaking out the box of tissues. So, don't stop there, Sean. Please, tell me more!"  
  
"Brian?"  
  
I remove my arm and look over at him.  
  
"I'd never use some clichéd story in an attempt to convince you your feelings about your dad are wrong." He looks anguished as his gaze fixes on mine. "You suffered things no child should suffer. That's legitimate, that's real, and those feelings belongs to you."  
  
For a second, I hold his gaze, something in it so fascinating I can't look away. "Finish your story." I return to my drink, my heartbeat accelerated though I don't have a fuckin' clue why.  
  
"No one shot the dog, but he did … something happened to him. It was a few years later, I was twelve or thirteen, and one day he was just gone. Someone took him or a car hit him—I never knew. I only knew he was gone and I was heartbroken." Sean presses his lips together and grimaces as he gives a shrug. "We were pals, he and I, and I couldn't believe he was gone for good. So, I kept going out, looking for him, putting up posters, heading over to the pound, asking people on the street if they'd seen him." With thumb and forefinger, he traces his mouth. "I maintained a very optimistic outlook month after month. Even when he didn't turn up, even when my parents, my friends, my brothers told me Rascal was gone for good, I wouldn't believe them. I kept on looking."  
  
Somewhere inside, I know where this will end, and I don't like it. I jump up and stagger to the front window, pulling the curtain aside so I can study the street below. "Go on." I grit my teeth, braced to hear the rest.  
  
"It took me a long time to realize what was really going on," Sean says on cue. "I thought I was being optimistic, keeping up my spirits, trying to persevere. Maybe, in the beginning, I was, but you know what, Brian? After a while, all I was doing was avoiding the truth and the pain that truth would bring. I was in denial. I didn't want to face the fact that Rascal was gone, that I'd never see him again. I didn't want that sorrow to invade my life."  
  
"Oh, _denial!_ We're back to denial!" I whirl around and walk toward him, my arms outstretched. "It's been, what? Two or three days since someone told me I was in denial! I'm so glad you brought that up!"  
  
"Would you come over here and sit down?" Sean asks, very soft.  
  
"I fuckin' don't see what good that'll do!"  
  
"Brian, come sit down," he says again, still soft, but there's a tiny imperceptible note of something in his tone. Authority? "I know you're upset, but—"  
  
"I'm not upset!" I shout, going rigid as the fury explodes in me. Then I stop. Oh, shit. That didn't come out like it should've. A whipped puppy, I return to the couch and drop down. With trembling hands, I light a fresh cigarette and take a deep drag, trying to calm my nerves. Fuck, why'd I let him in? Yeah, I respect the man, but he's just like his son, filled with stupid ideas that mean nothing. Anyway, what right does he have to tell me his theories about love? He probably grew up in some lovely suburban neighborhood with a nice vanilla father who brought his mom roses every day and built him a huge tree house in the backyard. "You don't have a fuckin' clue, Sean, so … just butt out."   
  
"You mean because I didn't have the same kind of upbringing you did?"  
  
I shrug, and concentrate on smoking. Somehow, I have to get him out of here without throwing him out, although I'm not sure when he acquired such special status.  
  
"You're wrong about that, Brian. My _Father Knows Best_ childhood didn't exist ... at least, not until I was nine. Just because I'm a nice suburban dad doesn't mean I was raised by one." Sean smiles when I lift my head to scrutinize his face. He leans his forearms on his knees, hands clasped, and drops his gaze to the floor. "That's the main reason I felt compelled to come see you. Not to be a superhero, but because I _know_ what you're going through."  
  
"Oh, right! So now you're going to tell me your father was abusive and he drank down at the local bar for a few hours before he—"  
  
"No, my father never drank—my biological father. You see, I was lucky. My father, the bastard who was _never_ drunk, but favored a belt when he beat me … that man died in the Korean War when I was eight. I used to … after they drafted him, I prayed every night, begging God to take him out, to explode a landmine under him or put a bullet through his head." He looks up and I see the anguish in his eyes. "And God answered that prayer." Sean gives his head a violent shake. "To this day, I feel guilty about that, like I killed my father even though I know rationally I didn't. And the truth is, if he _had_ come back, well, I don't know how long I would've lasted before he killed me. I would've been dead or a runaway soon enough. Frankly, the heroes' death was more than he deserved."  
  
Scrubbing my face with both hands, my picture of who Sean is spins wildly in my head. "You … hated him?" I hear myself say in a thick voice even though I know it's a mistake to take this any further. He needs to go. Right now.  
  
"With a passion," Sean replies with a shake in his voice, "and I even had a step-father later on who was kind and loving and filled in a lot of the gaps my father never touched." Sean straightens out, hands flat on his thighs as he looks at me again. "In many ways, I still hate him. Every time I think about how he abused me, it makes me sick to my stomach."  
  
I twist my head right to left and clamp down tighter on emotions that want to boil over. "But you learned to conquer those feelings and now you love him even though he was—"  
  
"I don't love him," Sean says emphatically. "How is that possible, Brian? Not real love like what I felt for my wife, what I feel for Brendan. No, you're wrong if you think that's where I'm going with this because I'm not. I hated his guts then. Now, many years later, I still hate his guts, but there's a part of me, a part I can barely acknowledge sometimes, that understands the whole denial thing. I'd like to pretend it doesn't exist, but the truth is, I _wanted_ my father to love me. Shit, Brian, I _still_ want him to love me—I can't get away from that feeling no matter how hard I try! He's long gone, dead in the grave these many years, and I had a wonderful step-father, who loved the hell out of me, yet _still_ , I want my biological father's love."  
  
"Then how in fuck are you any better than me?" I snap, and start to get up, but Sean stands abruptly—quick for such an old guy—and moves to sit on the couch.  
  
"Don't. Stay here." He pushes on my shoulder to keep me down.  
  
I want to slug him. I swear if he were anyone else, I would. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"  
  
He seats himself next to me. "It's different, Brian, because you won't admit you wanted your father's love. You denied it then and you're still denying it. In fact, you've gone so far as to deny any love, ever. You want to close yourself off from it so completely you're barely alive. You're behaving like a man who wants out of the love business altogether."  
  
What the fuck? Who said that to me? Those words? "You don't know what you're talking about! I have a friend, Michael, and I've always loved him because he—"  
  
"The one who spends time putting you down and keeping you stuck in your childhood? You call that love?"  
  
Oh, fuck. _Dominic._ It was Dominic who said that! "Don't be one of the frozen people." "Live like there's no tomorrow." "Give it all you've got." I am fucking surrounded by the love purveyors and they won't leave me in fuckin' peace. "Michael made me part of his family, he—"  
  
"And that kept you going when things were rough. I understand that. It was part of your coping behavior, but I'm not sure that has anything to do with love in the here-and-now. The only people I know who've offered real love to you have been Justin, Brendan, and me. But you're having a hard time seeing it because of what I just said about your father."  
  
An electrical current races through me and I shake even harder. "I _never_ wanted my father's love! That's bullshit! He was a bastard and I hated his fuckin' guts!"  
  
"But he was your _father_ and he shaped who you became—the man you see in the mirror each morning when you shave. Trouble is, Brian, you're _not_ that man, you're someone far better than that man, you have qualities that—"  
  
"Get the fuck out of here! You don't know what you're talking about!"  
  
"Wait!" He grabs my arm and, in a flash of pure instinct, I'm about to hit Brendan's father square in the face. The minute my arm swings back, he grabs it. He's strong—fuckin' strong. "No, son," he says as we're locked in this combative embrace, me straining forward, him pushing back. "Don't be afraid."  
  
"I'm not afraid!" I twist my arms to release his hold, struggling to get away from him, but even more, struggling to get away from his words. "Let go and get the fuck out of here!"  
  
"You're frightened of your feelings. I was the same way. It's okay, I swear, it is, but … the truth, Brian, you need to acknowledge the truth."  
  
My chest heaving, I stare at him. I'm stinking drunk, there's a searing pain over my right eye, and for some reason, I hurt all over. Somehow, I manage to look into his eyes, and I see something there that's … I can't name it. I-I can't. It's too much and I'm plastered so nothing's coming through right yet he keeps yammering on and on about Jack and love, denial and pain.   
  
Jack.  
  
He _never_ loved me, I know that. I've always known that. No, he punched and slapped me, and when he wasn't doing that, he was telling me how unwanted I was, he was complaining about how hard it was having another mouth to feed, he was belittling me and putting me down. And it hurt—fuck, yeah, it hurt!—because he was my father and even the meanest son of a bitch on the planet had more feeling for his kid than Jack Kinney had for me. _Me._ I was his kid, and that should've meant something to him, it should've had significance somewhere in his fucked up brain, but it didn't, it fuckin' didn't. He never loved me no matter how much I wanted him to, no matter how much I yearned for a gentle touch or a fuckin' encouraging word, no matter how I—  
  
The tears run down my cheeks, but I don't fuckin' care anymore. I'm awash in a pain that's so lacerating I can't catch my breath, can't move, can't think. A sound comes from me, a kind of wheezing as if I trying to speak, but I can't do that either ... can't do anything. Jack never loved me. Never. Why was that? I tried so fuckin' hard so many times to make him love me, to do something so brilliant or outstanding he'd be forced—fuckin' _forced_ —to recognize me, to acknowledge my existence, to turn his head and fuckin' look at me with something in his eyes other than disdain. But he never did, ever, no matter what I did, no matter how often I tried.  
  
Sean's arms are around me. I don't know how that happened, but I'm well past caring about that either. He feels warm, his embrace firm, his voice gentle as he says something I can barely hear over the roar in my head. "It's all right." Sean rubs my back. "I swear to you, Brian, it'll be all right."  
  
Will it be?  
  
I'm not sure about that.  
  
Not sure at all.


	42. Chapter 42

  
Author's notes: The song used here is _Betcha By Golly Wow_ sung by the Stylistics, and written by Linda Creed and Thom Bell in 1970.   


* * *

~ 42 ~  
  
_If Brian is my "true love"—and that's what I've always believed—then what does that mean for the future, assuming he won't have anything to do with me, ever?_

  
Daphne's wedding is almost three-quarters over before I give up hope that Brian will turn up. I don't know why I thought he might. There hasn't been one shred of evidence to support such a miracle. I mean, okay, so Sean paid Brian a visit on Thursday night. That much we know, Brendan and I, but nothing more. Sean said it was personal and that's all we could get out of him. Brendan, I think, was a little pissed off that his father was withholding information from him because, like me, he hasn't been able to talk to Brian either. The point is, no one knows how Brian is feeling, what he talked about with Sean, if he's angry, sad, depressed, whatever. Unless Brendan or I camp out on Tremont and jump on him when he comes home, we never will.  
  
Yeah, I've called him, but I'm still getting the cold shoulder—shit, by now, it's more like a major freeze-out. On Friday afternoon, after I reached Mrs. Hall's place, I gave up the whole escort-me-to-the-wedding thing, called Mom, and asked her to be my "date" today so I wouldn't feel quite so forsaken. She was coming to the wedding anyway, so it wasn't a difficult request. She came, we sat together during the ceremony, we stood in the receiving line (Daphne insisted Mom join me), we ate dinner at the bride's table, and we even danced together. Plus, Mom helped Daph fix the train on her dress after the ceremony; I tried to fix it, but for the life of me, couldn't figure out how it's done. Anyway, having Mom there … I think that pretty much makes me the biggest loser of all time, doesn't it? I love my mother and know she's a beautiful woman, but when you're my age, even if you're gay, you don't want to spend the whole evening with your _mother._   
  
Standing on the edge of the dance floor, I watch the white curtains along the sides of the tent move back and forth in the warm nighttime breeze. The place looks amazing with pink rose centerpieces, white, silver, and pink helium balloons tied at strategic points inside the tent, glass-enclosed white candles flickering at every table, and huge arrangements of pink and white roses in white wicker baskets attached to each tent pole. It's all very romantic, which, of course, it's supposed to be.   
  
As soon as the deejay plays a slow song, a number of couples hit the dance floor, gliding around, eyes on each other, which just makes me think of Brian. Daphne is out there too, somewhere, dancing with David. _Daphne Hall._ I get a lump in my throat each time I think of her that way. Not that I'm losing her, but that she's with the man she loves. Closing my eyes, the lump in my throat gets bigger. That's all I want, all I ever wanted and I was even willing to take Brian without all the romantic bullshit he despises. Despite myself, I sigh. People are already telling me I'll get over him, that it's for the best, that you never end up with your first love, that I'll look back on this ten years from now and laugh.   
Sure I will.  
  
"Hey, Justin! Want to dance!"  
  
I open my eyes to find Bailey swaying before me. She's had a bit too much champagne. "Uh, no, but thanks, Bailey," I say as nicely as I can. It hurts me to even look at her since _Brian_ was the one who picked out the dusty rose dress with the metallic lace overlay she's wearing. And he was right that the dress would look great on all three girls because Essie and Trisha look terrific too. God, it wasn't that long ago that he was in the bridal shop with us, saving Daphne from bridesmaid disaster. And later, after I was fitted for my tux, he saved me from wearing a stupid dusty rose-colored cummerbund and tie, which would've been embarrassing as hell. He always tried to maintain this façade of not giving a fuck, but it was so fake, and he so cared about me, about all of us. "You should ask John Clarence to dance," I tell Bailey. John is one of the groomsmen and he's gorgeous.   
  
One of the curls in Bailey's elaborate upswept hairdo falls into her face as she smiles at the idea. She leans toward me, and her voice drops. "He's not gay?" she asks and I hear the hope in her voice.  
  
I shake my head. "Nope."  
  
Bailey grins at me, grasps my upper arm, and totters off on her stiletto heels to lay her claim.  
  
Well, good for her. Everyone is looking for someone. Of course, I thought I found _my_ someone and maybe I did. Shit, that's not a great thought. If Brian is my "true love"—and that's what I've always believed—then what does that mean for the future, assuming he won't have anything to do with me, ever? That I'll never find someone? What if God or whoever only issues one true love per person? Wow, can't say I like that thought, at all. Besides, I'm not ready to let go of Brian just yet. I might even stage a sit-down outside the loft door and see what he thinks about that. He owes me something, doesn't he? A few words of explanation. _Something._ I'm not going to let him get away with that bullshit just because he wants to deny he has real feelings like a real human being. I know better.  
  
"Hey."  
  
Blinking, I realize there's someone standing in front of me. The minute I focus on him, my gaydar goes off, pinging wildly. "Hey," I manage to say, hoping I didn't look totally vacant and stupid staring off into space. He's about my height, dark hair and eyes, with a little tuft of that hair on his chin, kind of nice looking, although not beautiful like Brian. Then I realize I've seen him before. "You're one of the musicians."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
A string quartet played during the reception and dinner as well as right before the deejay took over. Now, though, since the dancing is in full swing, it looks like their job is done. "You were playing the violin. You guys are good."  
  
"Thanks. I'm glad you noticed." He gives me a flirtatious smile, although it's not too obvious. "I saw you out on the dance floor. You're a good dancer."  
  
I shrug. "I'm okay." Shit, is this my future? Guys trying to pick me up at weddings or parties? Of course, I guess I should consider myself lucky since most of the time the gay guys are rare at affairs like this ... or at least the ones willing to be open about it. Usually, though, with Brian at my side, no one would dare approach me. All I can think about is _him_. Maybe if everything was okay between us and I met this guy at Babylon one night, things might be different. Maybe he'd be a great fuck. But now?   
  
The guy raises an eyebrow as he gives me a little half-smile. "I think I've seen you before."   
  
I can't help myself. I groan. "Wow. People still say that?"  
  
He grins. "Yeah, I know, pretty clichéd, but it's true. You go to PIFA, don't you?"  
  
Now I'm surprised. "Yeah, I do. I'm an art major."  
  
"I thought so." He moves just a tiny bit closer, tongue flicking out to wet his lower lip. "You know, we could—"  
  
"Ethan!"  
  
We both turn. A tall redhead—the cello player, I think—stands a few feet away. "We're leaving. Come on." He turns, heading for an exit  
  
Ethan goes back to smiling into my eyes. "So, what's your name?'  
  
"Justin."  
  
He touches my shoulder. "Maybe I'll … see you on campus?"  
  
"Yeah. Maybe."  
  
Then Ethan heads off after his buddy. Fuck, that was depressing. I haven't even officially broken up with Brian—whom I never officially _had_ a relationship with in the first place—and this guy is coming onto me? I mean, he was okay, I guess, but not _that_ hot.  
  
"Justin?"  
  
I turn to find Mrs. Daphne Hall standing there, glowing at me the way she's been doing all day. "Hi! Who was that?"  
  
"Some guy." I jam my hands in my pockets as I give her my brightest smile. "Where's Mr. Hall?"  
  
Her grin gets bigger. God, she looks so incredible in the strapless, beaded satin wedding gown she's wearing, the creamy white color perfect against her café au lait-colored skin. "He's talking to some of his out-of-town friends. He told me I ought to come over here and dance with you."  
  
Even David feels sorry for me? Shit, maybe it's time to go home. Problem is, Mom left already so she could spend some time with Sean before he leaves tomorrow. My ride back to Mom's is with Eric, one of the groomsmen who lives in the same neighborhood, and he's nowhere near ready to leave. In fact, given how much he's been drinking, I'm probably going to end up driving _him_ home. "You don't have to—"  
  
"Justin, please! I don't have to dance with my best friend on the night I'm married? Get over yourself!" She grabs my hand and walks me onto the dance floor. A fast song is now playing and she immediately gets into it, hips swaying as she waves her hands, smiling at me. "Come one! Show all the straight boys how it's done."  
  
I shake my head, but follow her lead and a moment later, we're dancing. Right away, I feel better because I'm doing something so familiar and so much fun. I even start to smile, not quite able to believe my best friend looks so beautiful and just got _married_. How'd that happen? Weren't we just graduating from kindergarten? Are we really all grown up? And is the whole thing with Brian some kind of rite of passage where I end up with a broken heart? Shit, I hope not. I rather avoid that particular rite of passage if I possibly can because—  
  
Daphne stops. She's looking over my shoulder and at first, I think it's because David is approaching. Then I see the surprise on her face.  
  
That's when I turn.  
  
It's Brian.  
  
Dressed in a black tux, he walks toward us at a leisurely pace, the crowd parting as he makes his way across the room. There's a tiny smile on his face that might be nerves, but he moves nonetheless with his usual cool bravado.  
  
"Oh, my God," I murmur.  
  
"He's doing it again," Daphne says and there's something in her tone that makes me turn my head to check out her face.  
  
"Doing what?"  
  
Her eyes are round and, fuck, do I see tears? "The prom. He's doing it again."  
  
Then he's standing in front of me and, as we face each other, it dawns on me what she's trying to say. No, I don't remember the prom, only the bashing, but I sure as shit understand the significance of the white silk scarf he has around his neck. "Hi," I say with what's left of my voice.  
  
"Hi."   
  
He stares deep into my eyes and I see something there, something I don't recognize: an emotion I've never seen in Brian's eyes before. "I didn't … think you were coming." _What is it? What do I see?_ He looks tired—that much I can tell. His face is pinched, his cheekbones more prominent than they should be, the smudges under his eyes the kind he gets when he's not sleeping. Yet, still, he's the Brian I know. Hell, he's even smirking.  
  
He pokes his tongue into his cheek. "I thought I'd be fashionably late." Then his gaze rests on Daphne. "You look beautiful." He leans forward to kiss her cheek. "Congratulations, Daphne."  
  
She beams at him. "Thanks, Brian. I'm glad you could make it."  
  
"Mind if I borrow your dance partner?"  
  
Again, I see the flash of tears in Daphne's eyes. "Of course not." She speaks in a faltering voice, gives me a huge smile, and then grips Brian's arm before turning away.  
  
Staring at me like he hasn't seen me in weeks, something flares in Brian's eyes, that same something I couldn't name, an emotion he seems lost in for long moment after Daphne leaves. Then he runs a finger under my lapel. "You look … good." He glances up, gaze roaming as he takes in the wedding festivities and new emotions flash across his face, but at least they're ones I recognize: confusion, disdain, apprehension. He looks back at me and when he does, that all seems to disappear. He takes my hand firmly in his and pulls me with him as we head for the middle of the dance floor.  
  
A new song has just started and I recognize it because they played it earlier. Did the deejay make a mistake? Anyway, it's Daphne's mom and dad's favorite, "their" song from college, a slow love song called _Betcha By Golly Wow_. Moving gently to the slow beat, Brian takes the white silk scarf and slides it around my neck. 

_There's a spark of magic in your eyesCandyland appears each time you smile_ _  
_Never thought that fairy tales came true_  
_But they come true when I'm near you__

Brian takes me in his arms and pulls me close. He looks into my eyes and smiles. "Hang on, Sunshine," he whispers against my ear, and then we're moving.  
  
I'm sure I can't breathe and, yeah, as we glide around the floor, I'm holding onto him for dear life. My feet seem to move independent of my brain because we're dancing like we were born dancing together, turning, sliding, bending to the sumptuous music that washes over us.  
  
_And betcha by golly, wow_ _  
_You're the one that I've been waiting for forever_  
_And ever will my love for you keep growin' strong_  
_Keep growin' strong__

I sing the song's chorus without even realizing it, my eyes filling with tears at the words. Shit, I know they're corny, but right now, I don't care. That's what I want, isn't it? For our love to grow stronger? Ever since I can remember. And I don't fuckin' care if I'm only nineteen and that can't happen because everyone says it can't. It _can_ happen. In fact, I think it _is_ happening. As if to confirm that, Brian leans down to kiss my forehead, that same unfathomable expression in his eyes, one that's doing such beautiful things to his face it's almost painful to watch.  
  
"You okay?" he asks as he takes us around once again, and, right then I realize we're one of the few couples still on the dance floor—something Brian seems to expect. Everyone else is watching us, which is exactly what happened at the prom … at least, that's what Daphne told me. Fuck, she's right. He _is_ recreating the prom.  
  
"Yeah, just … overwhelmed."  
  
He holds me a little tighter. "Just don't let go," he says with a twinkle in his eye, "and you'll be fine."  
  
"Haven't I always done that?"  
  
He laughs and, wow, what a delightful sound that is, a real honest-to-goodness laugh. "You have." Then, without warning, he bends me backward and the sudden rush makes me want to whoop and holler.  
  
_If I could I'd catch a falling star_ _  
_To shine on you so I'll know where you are_  
_Order rainbows in your favorite shade_  
_To show I love you, thinking of you_  
_Write your name across the sky_  
_Anything you ask I'll try__

Brian pulls me back up, wraps his arms around my neck, and kisses me like there's no tomorrow, his mouth warm and firm and insistent against mine. Pressed close, I return the kiss with an enthusiasm that couldn't be anymore real, joy exploding like stars behind my eyes, joy that makes my toes curl, that makes me grin in the middle of the kiss.   
  
Coming away from him, I stare into Brian's eyes, and sing the song's chorus once more as he struggles not to smile.  
  
_'Cause betcha by golly, wow_ _  
_You're the one that I've been waiting for forever_  
_And ever will my love for you keep growin' strong_  
_Keep growin' strong__

And that's when it dawns on me, finally, what I'm seeing in his eyes that I've never seen before. He's looked at me like this—in the parking garage that night after the prom, when we made love for the first time after I came to live with him—but now the look—this look of love—is _unguarded_ , boldly out there for me to see, naked, exposed.   
  
It's real.  
  
_Fuck._ My throat closes and I feel the tears threaten once again.  
  
Just in time, Brian takes my hand and pulls me toward the exit.

***  
Outside, it's like a fuckin' movie set: moonlight bathes the lawn, the trees sway to a gentle breeze, music plays in the background. I can barely stand it. Keeping a tight grip on Justin's hand, I walk toward a garden area with a fountain, topiary, and some stone benches. Fuck, all the romance is giving me a headache. The frou-frou dresses, pink roses, candlelit tables, all the tittering and giggling and sighing about the happy couple. Shit, I hate that stuff, that's not me, that's not who—  
  
_Wait_. Stop, right now.   
  
Part of the new regime, right? That's what I promised myself _Not_ that I'd be happy or even pretend to be happy with the romance bullshit. Fuck, no. I'm never going to be in that crowd. _Justin_ —he's what's important here, right? I thought about it, I made my decision, and that's what I came to tell him. I turn my head and find him staring at me, those blue eyes filled with a happiness that brings that stupid smile to my face once again. Fuck, every time I do that, I feel raw and exposed, like everyone can see my insides. It's very uncomfortable, but, yes … it also feels good. Acknowledge the good, right? Okay, so, seeing him feels good and seeing him happy … even better. Coming in there like that and claiming him—that was good too. Taking him home with me tonight and removing that tux piece by piece? Definitely good.  
  
"So … how come you came?" Justin asks at my side, his hand tightening in mine like he thinks maybe I'll bolt for the car.   
  
Of course, given how little I enjoy discussing such things, he might be right, but … no! Old way of thinking. I'm not doing that. I'm trying things a little differently … just a little, like Sean suggested. With _Justin_. I roll my shoulders. Besides, when I decided to do this, I knew it wouldn't be easy.   
  
The fountain's peaceful gurgle greets us as we walk into the sweet-scented garden. "Let's, uh, sit here." I pull him down with me onto one of the stone benches. "I've been … doing some thinking," I begin, and sound lame even to my own ears. Fumbling for a cigarette, I offer him one, he shakes his head, and I light up. "Sean and I … talked. He's in town."  
  
Justin cocks his head and gives me a mischievous smile. "Yeah, I always know when he's around now, thanks to Mom."  
  
"Of course." Shit, am I going to tell him? I don't feel like doing the whole fuckin' song-and-dance about my … whatever it was that happened. It still makes me uneasy, but that led to my decision to be here tonight so— "The last few days—with and without Sean—I've been reevaluating things, trying to … figure out … things, decide what's important, what's not," I finally manage to get out. Damn, could I sound anymore dim-witted? I'm not going to like this part of the relationship, not at all. "For instance, uh, I was thinking about the rosary," I say, reaching for something, anything that doesn't involve Sean.  
  
"You were?" Beside me, Justin's face is grave in the moonlight. "Yeah, it's weird how everything that happened seemed to center on the rosary. I've thought about that a lot."  
  
"You've thought about the rosary?"  
  
"Sure."  
  
Fuck. I know the kid's smarter than me, but it looks like he'll prove it more and more especially if I have to participate in this kind of shit. "Did you come to any conclusions?" I'm genuinely interested in what he has to say, which I know will be insightful. Okay, maybe some of this stuff is … all right.  
  
Justin's forehead furrows, and he thinks for a second before he answers. "Okay, I'm going to say this first because I know you're just going to tell me I'm crazy. You know how you had that dream for years, how it got worse after the bashing, how it was always the same thing: you as a little boy trying to give yourself the rosary, which was really _Brendan_ giving it to you?"  
  
"It's familiar to me." I take another drag on the cigarette, a little sarcasm in my tone.  
  
"Well, I think that's twin telepathy." Justin speaks with all the boldness I'd expect of him. "And I think the reason it got worse was because you were having such a hard time after the bashing and unconsciously Brendan sensed that so—"  
  
I hold up a hand. "You're right. That's crazy."  
  
"But look how it all turned out, how you felt compelled to go to New York and see who Brendan Connelly was. It's like he was calling to you."  
  
I arch an eyebrow. "That stuff is great for soap operas, but we're talking real life here and—"  
  
"There's been some research done on twin telepathy that suggests—"  
  
He's been searching online, of course, but I don't want to talk about this because it's nuts and too far off subject. Besides, there's a goal here; something needs to be accomplished and it shouldn't take all fuckin' night. So, I lean forward, put a hand behind his neck, and kiss him long and slow, my tongue slipping into his mouth. He moans—the kid is so easy—and comes away from the kiss looking a little befuddled. "How about you just give me the dream's twelfth-grade-English-class symbolism and save the spooky shit for some other time?"  
  
He manages a cheery smile. "Symbolism, uh? Okay, well, you know how, after Brendan came into the picture, the dream changed and the rosary turned to roses, but the thorns were cutting your hands?"  
  
I nod.   
  
"The whole thing, I think it was about redemption. Yeah, it has the religious symbolism, with Christ on the cross—the death and rebirth thing—so that's one part of it. In addition, all the dream books I read said the color red was the color of virginity—"  
  
I have to laugh. "Yeah, between you and I they're lots of virgins around here."  
  
"But there _is_ one: you. Not a virgin in the sense you're thinking, but … a virgin as far as relationships are concerned."  
  
Oh, shit. I should've known he'd put it together. He's a fuckin' genius. "So, when the thorns were cutting my hands …"  
  
"—that was your fear of … well, of love and commitment and everything like that you usually sneer at." He gestures toward the huge white tent "That stuff. You knew that to embrace it, there'd be pain."  
  
Yeah, and I'm still sneering at it, only I have better control—at least, I hope I do. Okay, this is going to take time, lots of time—I already told myself that and Sean told me too. Fuck, Justin's right about the commitment and love, about my unwillingness to embrace a new life that, for me, is like free falling into darkness.  
  
But, wait, that's something I did in the dream, right? I was free falling except it wasn't into darkness, it was into the light. This becomes weirder the more I think about it, but, fuck, meanwhile, we're _still_ sitting here talking about the symbolism behind the rosary when I ought to be doing what I came here to do, once and for all. The muscles in my arms and shoulders tighten. Taking a final drag on the cigarette, I crush it underfoot and open my mouth to say what needs to be said.  
  
Loud applause erupts from the tent and an instant later the happy couple runs out, laughing and waving behind them as they do.  
  
"Oh, shit, I missed the bridal bouquet toss and the garter thing," Justin says as he watches Daphne and her new husband walk toward us.   
  
"Did you want to be the next one to get married?" I ask him, though I've often wondered if that _is_ something he wants. Shit, I don't think so, but if it is…  
  
"No, I'm not interested in that—you know I'm not." He takes my hand and sits there, just holding it between his two.  
  
Daphne and David are holding hands too, laughing, obviously on their way back to the house to change and be off on their honeymoon. Where'd Justin tell me they were going? Hawaii, I think.  
  
A moment later, they've made it as far as the garden. Justin stands as Daphne approaches, and gets another big hug, followed by one from David. I stand beside Justin, kiss Daphne again, congratulate them both, and shake David's hand. They're glowing. It's one of the best nights of their lives and, fuck, I'm happy for them. Just because I think the breeder rituals are absurd, well, to each his own. Hasn't that always been my mantra? Do whatever the hell you want? All too quickly, they're off to climb the huge set of stairs behind us that lead back to the mansion. Off to their new life, a life they've committed to one another.  
  
"God, they love each other so much." Justin looks after them, a slight smile on his face. "It's wonderful how much they love each other. I hope someday I'll have—"  
  
Then, he stops.  
  
Suddenly, all my dodging and weaving, my parsing of the language, my evasions and nasty ripostes, all of it seems intolerable, even to me. It's a simple, fuckin' fact, isn't it? Once the bullshit hearts and flowers romance has been swept aside, once the truth is laid out, plain for all to see, it's just a _fact_ , a fact that ought to be acknowledged the way any fact should be. A reality, a certainty. Not something to shirk or shy away from. Not something to be ashamed about. Not something that's unmanly or a death knell to my fuckin' ego. Just the _truth_ , a truth that ought to be proudly proclaimed by the man with the balls to do so.  
  
_Me._  
  
My arm slides across his shoulders and I pull him close, gently kissing the side of his face, one, twice, three times. I gather my courage as I prepare to do what I said I'd do, what I _know_ I need to do if I hope to have any chance at all for a real life … a life with Justin. I'm _not_ that man in the mirror, the one who stared back at me with Jack's angry eyes, the one who told me I was total shit, I didn't count, I was nothing. I don't care how stupid it sounds, how much it makes me feel like one of the touchy-feely types—it's the _truth_. And I have to act on that truth. I can't wait. I need to do it.  
  
_Now._  
  
"Your someday has arrived, Justin," I whisper at his ear, my voice with a definite shake to it, "because … that's what I came here to tell you … that-that I love you."  
  
Astonished, he turns to look up at me, his lips slightly parted.  
  
My voice hitches as I struggle to speak. "I love you and I want you in my life." I touch his face, fingers brushing smooth skin, then move to rearrange the white silk scarf ... that's _still_ white, that will remain so. "I want … that's something I want. _Us._ I want us."  
  
With a sob, he throws his arms around my shoulders and hugs me tightly . "Brian!" he whispers against my chest and, yeah, he's trembling. "Oh, God! I love you too! You know how much I love you!"  
  
The laughter that streams through me is relief, pure and simple, but it's also the love—yes, _love_ —that's captured my stone-cold bastard's heart. I grab Justin, twirling us around as I do. "Sing it," I say as I sweep him back into the dance, gliding around the fountain, the swaying topiary, the fuckin' stars in the sky lighting our way. "Go on, sing it again!"  
  
With a wobbly smile, Justin stares at me and I see the tears shining in his eyes. He draws some breaths and then, in a trembling voice, begins to sing as I lead us around the garden:  
  
_Betcha by golly, wow_ _  
_You're the one that I've been waiting for forever_  
_And ever will my love for you keep growin' strong_  
_Keep growin' strong__

And I can't help it, I fuckin' can't help it.  
  
My heart soars.


End file.
